


the trick is to keep breathing

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [15]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-07-26 01:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Sans has a very bad few days.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the end notes

Sans almost makes it out the door the next morning without getting busted. Almost.

Papyrus is supposed to be at work already. As soon as Toriel opened her school, Papyrus got a job there as some combo of gym/magic teacher and guidance counselor. The kids adore him, mostly because Papyrus treats them in the exact same way he treats anybody else. (Which is probably why Tori now insists that he run any puzzles or traps by her before he uses them on the kids. Papyrus has some understandably wonky ideas about what kids can handle.) Papyrus is amazing at his job and very, very dedicated to it. Taking a day off would be sacrilege. He doesn’t believe in vacations.

But there he is in the kitchen, prodding skeptically at a pot boiling on the stove. He's got his phone propped up on the counter and Sans can hear one of the human cooking shows. It has to be. Not enough chainsaws revving to be Mettaton.

So. Looks like he has to decide between coffee and stealth. Life is cruel.

Before he picks one way or the other, though, Papyrus's finely honed bullshit sensors fire and he turns from the stove. There's a smear of something charred across his cheekbone. Sans decides he doesn't want to know. Papyrus taps his phone and the cheerful human nattering cuts off.

"Oh! I didn't think you were home!" Papyrus sounds somewhere between pleased and suspicious. He settles on the second one, squinting at Sans. "Shouldn't you be at work? Do you have the plague? Are you broken?"

His cover blown, Sans wanders into the kitchen. When he reaches the coffee machine, he snags the pot and drinks straight from it just to see the face Papyrus makes. He likes to max out his annoying older brother stats when he can. "Nope. How about you tell me why you're not at work first?"

Papyrus waves irritably at the smoke rising from the stove. "It's some sort of human holiday. They have a lot of those. It's always about setting things on fire one way or another."

"So you decided to get in the holiday spirit?"

"I didn't set anything on fire," Papyrus says, offended. "Undyne wouldn't be here to enjoy it. I merely added a subtle smoky flavor! Naturally! With actual smoke!"

"Organic is in," Sans agrees, taking another swig.

"Exactly." Papyrus points at him with the abused wooden spoon. "You didn't say why you were home. Don't think you can hoodwink me by flattering my cooking techniques!"

"But look." Sans tugs at the hood of his jacket. "I'm dressed for hoodwinking and everything."

"The kitchen is a shenanigan free zone," Papyrus says sternly. He gives Sans a second look. "You look terrible. Terribler than usual."

Probably. Sans tried the soul manipulation thing one more time before he showered and came downstairs. He didn't look great in the bathroom mirror. Even after washing off, he can still faintly smell his own acrid fear sweat, too reminiscent of the labs. He shrugs. "Is it the turtleneck?"

"Don't be silly. I wear turtlenecks all the time and I'm a fashion plate. Even Mettaton thinks so." Normally that'd be enough to derail Papyrus's train of thought (sex or no sex, Papyrus has had a thing for Mettaton for years) but Papyrus only frowns at him. "No, it's something else. It reminds me of..."

The words trail off into nothing. Papyrus's eyes go distant and unfocused. Sans's grip tightens on the handle of the coffee pot until the plastic creaks, his soul twisting with anxious guilt, and he waits for the moment to pass. Some part of him always worries that when Papyrus has one of these spells, trying to get to memories that aren’t there anymore, he's never coming back out of it. 

Then Papyrus blinks, visibly rebooting, and continues without missing a beat, "-- fingers." Another blink. Papyrus shakes his head like he's trying to jar his mind into working again. "Wait. What was I saying? I have a headache. Other than you."

Sans could take advantage of the fact that Papyrus spaced out to make his escape. That'd be lousy even for him, though. "About why I'm not at work. I'm, uh, probably taking a break from the delivery job for a while. The hot dogs too."

"Oh," Papyrus says, startled. He's been on Sans to drop a job or two, covering his worry up with a bunch of stuff about terrible productivity stats and too many jobs meaning too many breaks and too little cool dude exposure. Surprise gives way to relief. "Well! Good! It's about time you listened to me!"

"Sorry, what was that? I didn't hear you."

"And the moment has passed." Papyrus turns the stove off and tugs off his oven mitts. "Do you want late breakfast? I hear it's the most important meal of the day. Probably because there's oatmeal."

Tempting, but if Sans doesn't show after what happened last night, Edge is probably going to jump to a lot of the wrong conclusions and several of the right ones and show up here to make sure he’s not dead. Sans glances at the clock on the wall. It's getting towards noon. "Nah. Thanks, though. I'm gonna do the lunch thing with Edge."

"Well, at least I know it's not Grillby's," Papyrus sighs. "Papyruses have standards. It's a universal constant."

"Yeah, he'll keep me on the straight and narrow." Regretfully, Sans replaces the coffee pot in the machine. "Heh. Well, as straight and narrow as I get. Seeya, dude."

He almost gets to the door before Papyrus calls after him. "Brother? One last teeny thing?"

The door is so close. He's never needed a shortcut more in his life but no, his magic has to decide to be a pain in the ass. As slowly as a horror movie victim about to meet their fate, Sans turns around and grins at Papyrus. "Yeah, dude. What's up?"

Smiling brightly, Papyrus asks, "What happened to your neck?"

Fuck.

"I don't--" Sans starts, sees the highly unimpressed expression on Papyrus's face, and sighs. "It's nothing. Some marks. Last time I saw Red, things got a little, uh. Yeah."

"Like hickeys?" Papyrus asks dubiously.

"Yeah," Sans says. Hickeys and bruises are pretty much the same thing, physiologically speaking.

"They must be quite something not to have healed overnight."

Sans shrugs. "You know how it is, bro. My HP and everything. Don't worry about it."

"Mm-hmm.” Papyrus manages to inject a lot of doubt into one non-word. He puts his hands on his hips. “You know, Edgy Me lent me his relationship handbook."

Not this. Anything but this. Sometimes it's hard for even Sans to tell whether Papyrus is deliberately fucking with him or not. He squirms. "That's great, Pap. I gotta go, so--"

"It was very educational."

"I'm sure it was. Anyway--"

"You should probably read it if you and Cherry are going to do things that leave bruises on your neck," Papyrus says. "Communication is very important."

This is it. This is Sans's punishment for all his mistakes: Papyrus gearing up to talk earnestly about aftercare. As he backs towards the door, he says, "Okay. Communication. You're right, buddy. I'm a changed man. All about the communication. In fact, I'm gonna go right now so I can communicate the hell out of Red. Got a lot of it to catch up on."

Papyrus crosses his arms. "I have no doubt. Just... be responsible for once, all right? I worry about you."

Damn. The doorknob is in Sans's hand and he's got the door open a crack but he can't just pretend he didn't hear that as easily as he would if he had a shortcut. Not when Papyrus gets all sincere on him. Not when he's bothered enough to actually say something. Not when he has a damned good reason to be worried.

"I know,” Sans says, painfully inadequate. "Sorry."

Papyrus raises a brow and for a moment he looks so eerily like Edge that Sans's soul lurches in his chest. "Sorry enough to actually tell me what's going on?"

Sans hesitates, the easy bullshit answer caught in his throat. He hesitates for too long.

Papyrus sighs. The worst part is that he doesn't look surprised. Hurt, yeah. Angry. Disappointed. But not surprised. "Fine. Can we please skip the part where you tell me there's nothing wrong, at least? Just say goodbye and go where you're going."

"There's something going on," Sans says.

The words don’t come out easy. He has to pry them out, like pulling a tooth without anesthetic. It feels like the truth should cause some sort of seismic shift. Some fundamental reordering of the universe. It doesn’t. The world keeps ticking. Papyrus’s brows go up. It hurts to look at the tentative hope in his eyes. "Well, yes, I figured that much. But you won't tell me what it is?"

"I just need some time," Sans says.

Exasperated, Papyrus says, "It's been nine months already! Ever since we got above ground! Ever since the human came!" Suddenly, he stops. He’s is no judge, but he knows Sans. His eyes widen. "Is that--?"

"Pap," Sans says, halfway to a plea.

"All right," Papyrus says, almost soothing. He frowns, looking dangerously thoughtful. "At the end of all this time I'm giving you, you'll tell me?"

If the years pass, if the kid never resets, if Sans doesn't die of terminal stupidity, if he ever manages to get his shit together... it's a lot of hypotheticals. There’s a very narrow chance he'll ever have to deliver.

But the answer isn’t no.

"I gotta figure some stuff out,” Sans says. “Might take a while. A long while. Then... yeah. I'll tell you."

Papyrus considers him for a long time. Then he nods. "Okay, brother. I believe you."

And that's it. Papyrus doesn't even ask for a promise. He turns back to the stove and turns it on. As high as it’ll go, of course. As far as Papyrus is concerned, there’s no other setting. Without turning, Papyrus says, "Tell Edgy Me I said hello. Hmm, wait, no, he's me, he'll know I said hello. Tell him I want to borrow a pair of his pants on Saturday."

Sans stares at him. Papyrus is giving the stove his full attention, or at least pretending to. Finally, Sans says, only a little choked up, "Thanks."

Papyrus flaps a hand at him. "Yes, yes. I know. I'm the most patient monster in the world and you adore me. Now either go all the way out or stay in, but close the door. I'm not heating the neighborhood. That's not how thermodynamics work."

Sans laughs. Then he pulls open the door, takes a last long look at his brother, and heads for the bus station. He hasn’t confessed to jack or shit but even admitting that there’s something to admit to, he feels warmer. Maybe the book has a point about that whole honesty thing. Maybe he should turn over a new leaf. Maybe he’s completely full of shit.

The bus is terrible. When he rides in cars, it’s for the company like on joyrides with Papyrus or because Asgore insists he looks too tired from judging to take a shortcut. It’s never been out of necessity before. Turns out public transportation is agonizingly slow with a bunch of humans giving him and the other two monsters the side-eye. There’s some entertainment to be found by meeting their eyes and smiling his most unnerving, dead-eyed smile, but not much. It takes way longer than he expected. He gets off a stop before the embassy, far enough that nobody like Undyne or Edge will see him taking the bus and ask questions, and walks the four blocks. 

By the time he gets to the park, Edge is already there on their usual bench, looking like a bad mood personified. When he sees Sans, he straightens up like he didn’t think Sans was really coming. As Sans approaches, Edge thoroughly looks him over, then around them. "Where's your cart?"

Sans shrugs. "It's lousy weather and tourist season is dying off anyway. I figured setting up would be more trouble than it's worth. I don't relish the thought of wasting dogs, y'know?"

Edge stares at him, appalled and not by the pun. "How hurt are you?"

"Dude, relax," Sans says. Clearly his ‘everything’s fine’ routine needs some serious work if three out of three skeletons call bullshit. "I'm just taking a day off. Nothing's wrong."

"I had to harangue you to get you to take an afternoon off when you were coughing hard enough to crack a rib," Edge says.

"I'm still going to work tonight, man, it's no big deal," Sans says. "Lazy, remember?"

“You walked here,” Edge says accusatively.

“I wanted some air. Aren’t you always on Red for taking too many shortcuts?”

It’s suspicious as fuck and Sans knows it, but it’s the best he’s got. Edge looks up the sky as if glaring at the universe for making him put up with this bullshit. Then he sighs and jerks his chin at the bench. "Fine. Sit."

Sans sits, shoving his hands in his pockets. Maybe Edge will give him a biscuit for being a good boy. "How's Red?"

Edge's expression goes through a tangle of worry-resignation-irritation, settling finally on tired. "Given what happened, I'm surprised you're asking."

"Give me some credit. I already knew he wasn't exactly the most stable guy,” Sans says. “I'm not mad or scarred for life or whatever else you think I'm supposed to be."

Edge searches his face for a long moment. Sans waits. Finally, Edge looks away. There's almost a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "No, you aren't, are you. Well. He's as fine as he ever is. Pretending it never happened. When he gets in these moods, at least they pass quickly. At the moment, I'm more worried about you."

"It's seriously just a day off."

"Your throat," Edge clarifies. "It was already bruising last night."

"I bruise easy. No big deal." When Edge gives him that same unimpressed look, Sans sighs and tugs the turtleneck down. "See? It looks pretty but it's not terminal."

Edge studies his bare throat with an unnerving intensity that makes Sans want to cover it back up. It's not like his usual clothes don't leave that part of his spine visible but nobody's ever looked at it like that before.

Gruffly, Edge says, "I could heal you."

"Well, sure," Sans says, taken off guard by the guilt in Edge's eyes. "I mean, you're great and terrible and everything."

That amuses him, at least. Sounding more like himself, all dry sarcasm, Edge says, " _May_ I heal you?"

Sans has only got the one turtleneck and it was bad enough explaining the bruises to Papyrus. He doesn't want to hear it at work. He scoots closer and tilts his chin up to give Edge more room. "Do I get a lollipop and a sticker if I don't kick you?"

At least he thinks that's how normal doctors go, judging from pop culture and what Tori's said about Frisk's checkups. He wouldn't know.

(Don't think about Gaster.)

"No, but you won't get kicked back harder," Edge says. Sans chuckles, which feels weird when Edge's fingers come to rest very lightly on his spine. Edge checks him, expression tightening a little.

"Don't make that face or it'll stick that way," Sans says. "My HP is at max and everything."

"If I see someone I care about at one HP, it means something has gone terribly wrong," Edge says.

 _Someone I care for,_ huh. "Not now, it doesn't. Put down the duct tape and the bubble wrap."

"I'm trying," Edge says, his voice unexpectedly soft. Sans blinks and Edge clears his throat. "Hold still."

When Papyrus or Toriel heal, their hands get warm, but Edge's hand gets so hot it's uncomfortable. Nobody taught him to gentle it, probably. Not much opportunity for gentleness where he was from. It would be easier and faster if Edge just wrapped his fingers around Sans's spine like Red did, but he doesn't. His fingers skim Sans's vertebrae, so light it's almost ticklish, like he's afraid to hurt Sans more. Sans didn't realize Edge had quite that much gentleness in him. He shivers.

"I'm sorry," Edge says, not meeting Sans's eyes.

"Yeah, that's bullshit," Sans says. Edge makes eye contact, startled. "Total bullshit. I'm not even mad at Red. Why would I be mad at you?"

Edge looks away, his jaw set, like Sans daring not to blame him is deeply aggravating. "I pushed him too hard. I made a mistake."

Sans shrugs as much as he can without jarring Edge's hand. "I don't do the kind of kinky stuff you guys do but even I know you're supposed to stick around when a... uh, scene? Is that the word?" Edge nods, looking amused. "A scene goes off the rails."

"Off the rails is putting it mildly," Edge says.

"Yeah, I got that," Sans says. "Still. It's okay. He didn't hurt me. Even if he had, that wouldn't be on you."

"The collar says otherwise.”

"Sounds exhausting.”

"He’s my brother,” Edge says, as if that explains everything. To Sans, it does. “I wouldn't change it."

"I'm not saying that you should, buddy." Hard to deny that as uncomfortable as it makes Sans, the two of them need each other. They're devoted. Loving, in their own weird way. A universal law: a Sans needs a Papyrus. "I don't want to stick my, heh, nose in your business. Just making an observation, that's all."

"There's no such thing as 'just an observation' from you, judge," Edge says without heat. Sans shrugs. "I made my decision a long time ago. It's fine. Although your help yesterday was appreciated."

Sans snorts. "That wasn't help. That was the least I could do. Literally."

"Hm," is all that Edge says. He takes his hand away and sits back on the bench. The bones of Sans's throat still burn where Edge touched them like they might glow from the heat. Sans resists the urge to rub at them.

"You brought him back to me," Edge says simply. "Thank you."

Yeah, that's a little too sincere for comfort. Sans has the feeling that 'thank you' is a big honking deal where Edge is from and, like the food thing, he's left trying to avoid making it weird. He awkwardly pats Edge's shoulder, drawing his hand back when Edge tenses. "Don't worry about it. Like I said. Easiest option."

"I can think of several easier," Edge says. "What were you going to do if I hadn't come home?"

Sans thinks of Red's body on top of his, pinning him to the mattress. Red's one hand around his throat and the other between his legs. The slick red tentacles twining up the inside of his femur. He scratches his suddenly hot cheek and grins sheepishly. "Uh, guess we'll never know."

Edge's mouth quirks at one corner. "I suppose not. Red was right, I think--”

"Don’t go around saying that,” Sans says. “Red’s insufferable enough already without you giving him ammo.”

“It’s so nice to have someone who appreciates exactly how aggravating he is,” Edge says, almost smiling. “I mean to say that I misjudged you.”

Because he saw Red at his (not-murdery) worst and didn’t flinch? Well. Hopefully that means he can stop banging humans in bathrooms just to make a point about his durability. He grins. “Good thing you don’t do it for a living, huh?”

Edge sighs. "Speaking of, I should go. Undyne has everything under control but I don't want to push it."

"She can't quite scowl like you." Sans tugs the turtleneck back up. "I'm gonna hang out here for a while. Gotta give the humans something to stare at. Thanks for the healing."

"Of course." Edge stands. Once he’s on his feet, he pauses for a second, looking down at Sans. There’s a strange expression on his face. Warmth and a little uncertainty. Sans can still feel the heat of Edge’s hand on his throat.

“You, uh, got something to say?” Sans asks warily.

Edge says, almost thoughtful, “No.” Then he turns on his heel and heads off for the embassy.

What a weird guy.

Sans waits until he sees Edge disappear into a side entrance of the embassy before he gets up and heads for the bus stop. The guy's suspicious enough. Maybe he ought to just call Red and say he wants some afternoon delight. That’ll get him a free shortcut to Red’s place and let him check on Red himself. If he's really doing better, Sans will--

He'll...

... try to find an excuse not to ask for help, because he's pathetically predictable. The whole judge thing doesn’t leave him much room to be unaware of his failings. But he needs to figure this shit out. Papyrus is starting to catch on, like he hasn't been worried already, and there's only so long Sans can keep this whole bus thing up without getting caught. If Papyrus and Edge find out, this is going to spin entirely out of his control. He's running out of time and options. Pretending he can handle this on his own has crossed from stupid into outright suicidal, and that’s never been his bag. Something’s got to give.

(Unless the kid resets, anyway. Unless he doesn't have to deal with this at all. Unless there's no point like there's always _been_ no point--)

A flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He looks up to see a kid in the mouth of an alley. Not just any kid. No, the neighbor kid, his black eye healed to ugly blotches and a new cast around his left wrist. It was the stark white of the cast that caught Sans’s eye. The kid's face is twisted up, the rage and hate of someone in a cage, his mouth trembling and tears in his eyes, and Sans knows what’s coming even before the kid takes a wild swing at him.

Even with one hand out of commission, the kid has good aim. It’s going to hit him. Only way to dodge is with a shortcut. A calculated risk versus an automatic death sentence. He takes the shortcut. When he feels Edge’s hand clamp down on his shoulder, bodily hauling him out of the way, it’s too late to stop.

They're in the void, frozen in that moment between two doors. It's only supposed to be seconds. It's only ever been seconds, a few steps between one place and another.

The door doesn't open. It won't. He can feel the place where it should, a weakness in time and space, but as hard as he claws at it, nothing happens. The door behind them is shut. They’re locked in.

The void is absence. Absence of sight, absence of taste, absence of sound, absence of time, but not absence of sheer fucking panic.

He tries the door. There is no door. There's nothing. A vast field of nothing. It's forever in here.

And between one (not)second and the next, not that there's between, not that there's anything to _be_ between, there is a face. An impossible break in the darkness where nothing lives. It's close to him. Too close. A bone white, pitiless mask. Long-fingered hands that shape words with cruel precision. Sans knows that face.

Sans’s mouth shapes the word ‘no’, even if there’s no sound here and no air to speak. It doesn’t matter. No has never meant anything to Gaster.

Gaster's head cocks. His eyes are black pits with only the void showing through. When he hurt Sans, he was always coldly, cruelly rational, but there's nothing like sanity in those eyes now. Six years in the nothing, watching. Waiting. Remembering. He says, the words ringing in Sans's head despite the fact that they aren't said aloud, _found you._

His hand clamps down on Sans's shoulder. It's cold. It burns. Sans would tear his throat screaming if he could but like a nightmare, he can’t run or cry out for help. No one would come anyway. He stands there, Gaster gripping one shoulder, Edge gripping the other, caught between them.

 _Very interesting,_ Gaster says, and gives him an unceremonious shove. The darkness gives way to the world.

Then Sans is back out into the light. He can breathe again. He makes an undignified noise like a yelp, short and sharp, that quickly cuts off as he drops to his knees in the snow. His knees won’t hold him.

Wait. The snow?

The snow. The forest. He knows it. They're in Snowdin, trees crowded around them. In that one panicked moment before the shortcut, he’d been aiming for home as in their new little house above ground. Maybe his shortcuts just decided to drag him back to his _real_ home. He's lucky they didn't wind up in the labs. Hell, he's lucky he didn't get them both killed by shortcutting into a wall. It was such a stupid mistake and then Gaster--

_found you._

Sans can hear his bones rattling as he trembles. When he looks down at his shoulder where Gaster touched him, there’s a handprint on his hoodie, black as the void and sticky. It stands out like an accusation.

 _found you._

A check breaks into his reverie a moment before Edge drops to his knees in front of him. Sharply, Edge demands, “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Yes. God, yes, he did. But Edge means the kid.

“I’m okay,” Sans lies. He sounds almost calm despite the fact that his teeth are chattering. "Did, uh. Heh. Did you see something?"

"The part where that child you’ve been protecting from my tender mercies damn near killed you?" Edge says, with a sharp, brittle anger. "Yes, I saw. He's still young enough to persuaded to change. I was going to frighten him, not--"

All at once, Edge goes very still. Slowly, as if he's trying not to startle prey into bolting, he looks around them. Takes in the snow, the woods, the silence.

"Look," Sans says, bracing for an awkward explanation. "We might have to walk b--"

"Shut up," Edge says.

Sans shuts up, hearing the dead fucking serious tone in Edge's voice, jerked to a stop like he’s on a leash. Edge listens and Sans listens too. Even with the population gone above ground, it's too quiet. All the little sounds of life are gone.

The snow is grimy. Gray. Like dust.

This isn't Snowdin. This isn't _his_ Snowdin.

Edge grabs Sans by the arm and hauls him to his feet. In a tight, deliberately calm voice, he says, "We need to go. Now."

But before Edge can drag him more than a couple feet, a sound breaks the silence. A long, eerie howl.

The dogs are coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: attempted human-on-monster violence, horror themes as Gaster makes an appearance, threat of danger from the Underfell dog guard. Things are going to get rough for Sans and Edge for a little while but I do want to say for the record that this story isn't going to involve either sexual violence or major character death.


	2. Chapter 2

As the howl dies away, replaced by that dead silence, Edge closes his eyes. Then, too suddenly for Sans to protest even if he wanted to, he hauls Sans up by the front of his hoodie and shoves him back against a tree. Deja vu all over again, one brother traded for another and both of them pushy as hell. Sans lets out a shaky breath as Edge presses against him, a solid line of heat and strength, and brings their faces together. For a wild moment, he thinks Edge is going to kiss him.

Edge murmurs, his mouth barely moving against Sans's jaw, "Their eyesight is shit. Don't speak unless they get suspicious. If they do, pretend to be Red. Understand?"

Five minutes ago, they were in the park talking about nothing. His life went to hell in five minutes.

"Yeah," Sans says quietly. He's always been a good mimic.

"Good." Edge rubs his cheek against Sans's jaw, a press of warm bone, then against his throat. Getting his scent on Sans. Red would reek of Edge but this is the best they're getting in the span of a minute. "I won't let them hurt you."

No. Edge'll kill them first. That's more horrifying than it is comforting.

He can hear the cacophony of snapping branches and heavy, booted feet hitting the ground, getting closer, and his soul is hammering fit to crack in his chest, but there’s the brittle calm on the other side of terror settling over him. There’s nothing he can do here but wait and trust Edge. To his surprise, he finds that he does. Edge is breathing steadily against his throat, his tense body between Sans and the incoming threat, and when they burst into the clearing, Edge doesn't flinch.

"(Stay!)" Dogaressa barks, an ear-piercing noise.

A moment later, Dogamy echoes her. "Stay!"

Edge releases Sans's hoodie, unceremoniously letting him drop, and turns to face them. He's almost smirking, although it doesn't reach his eyes. "I believe that's my line."

The Dogi both stare at him, stiff tails easing down between their legs. Dogamy looks uncertainly at Dogaressa. There's a collar around his throat, black leather stark on the white fur.

Dogaressa rests the staff of her axe on the snow. Dogamy follows suit. The blade of their axes are stained. "(Lieutenant? Where were you?)"

Sans sees Edge relax a little when she lowers the weapon and more when she uses his title but his tone is all deadly warning. "I wasn't aware I answered to you, dog."

She cringes, ears flattening to her head. "(Sorry, lieutenant.)"

After a tense moment, Edge sighs heavily and holds out his hand, and Dogaressa's tail tentatively comes out from between her legs. She creeps over, Dogamy a step behind her, and Edge scritches the top of her head, then behind one of her ears. Dogamy waits, nearly vibrating, until Edge does the same to him. Dogaressa nuzzles Dogamy and then shoulders him out of the way, reclaiming Edge's full attention. Sulkily, Dogamy steps aside and looks towards Sans, who tries his best to look like an asshole. It’s not particularly hard.

"Report," Edge says to Dogaressa, letting his hand fall back to his side. Apparently petting time is over.

"(It's been bad here,)" Dogaressa says. "(Just us dogs holding the town. The captain is busy elsewhere. It would be easier if she would make somebody else lieutenant but she won't. She's a good captain.)"

"Loyal," Dogamy agrees. He comes closer to Sans, whuffling softly as he takes in Sans's scent. Sans holds very still, his hands in his pockets. He's never been afraid of the dogs; with them, it’s all jokes and poker and fetch. They're harmless. But he's too aware of the sharpness of Dogamy's teeth and the red of LV in his eyes. He feels like prey.

Red's never quiet. It's suspicious. Too suspicious. Dogamy takes another step into his space and Sans grins and says in Red's rough, accented voice, "How's about you back off before I make you back off, buddy?"

With a grumble, Dogamy does so. The suspicion in his expression is gone, burnt off like mist in the sun. Good to know Red is just as charming at home as he is in Sans's universe.

There's a flicker of relief in Edge's expression that doesn’t show in his voice. "Do we still hold Snowdin?"

Dogaressa's lip curls to show her teeth. "(The bunnies,)" she says. "(They're trying to take over. They control the supply lines. They hurt Doggo. They tried to hurt my husband. Pushing, always pushing.)"

"And the king--" Dogamy begins.

Dogaressa turns sharply on him and snaps, "(A good king!)"

Dogamy flinches, eyes dropping to the ground. There's a hint of a growl in his voice. "Yes. A good king."

"Long may he reign," Edge says. It would be hard for anyone but a judge to hear the sardonic razor hidden under the polite, respectful words. "Go back to your patrol. Tell no one that you saw me."

"(No one?)" Dogaressa asks, startled.

"Even the captain?" Dogamy chimes in.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Edge says. "Clearly things have gotten lax in my absence. Don't tell her or the other guards until I've had a chance to evaluate the situation."

"(Yes, lieutenant,)" Dogaressa says crisply. She glances back and forth between Sans and Edge, her ears perked up, a new brightness in her eyes. Her smile bares teeth. "(We're glad you're not dead.)"

"Missed the smell of bones," Dogamy says.

Edge scoffs. "As if I'd leave you idiots in charge. Go on. You have jobs to do."

"(Good lieutenant,)" Dogaressa says fondly. Then she sniffs a few times in Sans's direction, flicks an ear and turns dismissively away. A moment later, she's out of the clearing and gone, Dogamy a step behind her.

Back home, Sans thought he'd seen Edge really on guard. He was wrong. Edge stands there, listening, spine as straight as an iron bar, until the sound of their footsteps are gone. Then he exhales and looks at Sans. "Are you all right?"

Sans shrugs. With a calm he doesn't feel, he says, "That wasn't so bad."

Edge sighs. "It could have been worse. It probably will be once we get closer to the house."

"Sounds like the place has really gone to the dogs," Sans says. Jokes. He's good for jokes.

Edge makes a disgusted noise, but he seems to take the joke as proof that Sans isn't going to have a nervous breakdown. From his inventory, he pulls a jacket, black with a furry brown hood. One of Red's, a spare, probably in case Red got blood-splattered. Edge says, "Take that off. The dogs might be fooled by your scent but anyone with decent eyesight won't be."

"Anyone with decent eyesight is going to notice that I don't have a crack in my skull or a fake tooth," Sans says, but he's already shrugging out of his hoodie. Truth be told, he doesn't want to look at that black, sticky handprint anymore. It makes him feel unclean.

"Which is why you're going to keep your hood up," Edge says. When Sans hands over his hoodie, he takes it without even glancing at the handprint. Two of his fingers touch the goo and it clings to his gloves like tar but he doesn't react. He doesn't see it at all. When Sans shivers, it has nothing to do with the cold.

His hoodie disappears into Edge's inventory. He takes Red's jacket from Edge and shrugs into it. Red isn't that much taller or broader, as much as Red would like people to believe it, but his jacket is big on Sans. It swallows him, heavy and warm. He's not going to admit later that he feels a little safer with it on.

Edge looks him over, then nods. His expression is both grimly resolved and weirdly apologetic. "One more thing."

And then he pulls a collar from his inventory. 

Sans's soul does a hard double-thump in his chest. Even from here, it hums with magic layered on magic, heavy with intent. "Oh," he says faintly. He's leaning back a little, repelled like two opposing magnets even though he can't tear his eyes away. "Right."

"No one should get close enough to see it," Edge says. "But in case they do, or in case your cover's blown, it's better if they know you're under my protection."

"Makes sense," Sans says. He doesn't move closer. All the rational thought in the world about safety and disguises and cultural norms can't erase the fact that he doesn’t want it anywhere near him. 

"When we get back, you can take it off," Edge says. He takes a knee in the snow. "Come here."

Turns out that's worse than Edge coming towards him with it. It seems funny, Edge on his knees when Sans is the one who’s going to be collared, like the weirdest marriage proposal ever. Sans says, "Just give it to me and I'll put it on."

"It's about intent," Edge says with unexpected patience. "The collar tells people not to fuck with you because you're mine. It won't be as strong if you put it on yourself, and we need all the help we can get right now."

It's the truth. Edge wouldn't lie to him about something like this. Edge isn’t Red; he doesn't play those kinds of head games. Sans shuffles a couple feet forward until he's standing in front of Edge.

Edge unbuckles the collar. The buckle clinks and Sans jumps a little, his nerves wound embarrassingly tight. Gently, Edge says, "I'm not going to hurt you."

Sans swallows. "Didn’t think you would, buddy. It's just..."

It's just that it's a lot. Sans only has about 75% of the context from Red and Edge's relationship but even he can tell that the collar means something to Edge. He doesn't do well with meaningful stuff. Give him a no strings attached fling, not this, whatever it is. It's the opposite of uncomplicated. Even though it's only for the sake of a con, it changes things.

"You don't like being out of control. I understand. Neither do I." Edge's mouth quirks in a dry smile. "We can't all be Red."

Sans laughs. "Holy shit, no, that'd be a car wreck."

Fuck, Red. Red is going to have Sans's ass for this when ( _if_ ) they get back and Sans will deserve it. Edge wasn't supposed to grab him, Gaster wasn't supposed to find him, this whole thing was only ever supposed to backfire on Sans. None of that changes the fact that anything that happens here is on him. If Edge gets himself killed trying to keep Sans’s useless ass alive--

"You don't have to do this, y’know," Sans says. It’s an offer he has to make, even knowing that Edge won’t take him up on it, even though the last thing he wants is for Edge to leave.

Unexpectedly, Edge only huffs a sour laugh. "You really are the same person, aren't you. Predictable. No, thank you for the idiotic offer, but I'm getting you back to your brother whether you like it or not."

"Okay," Sans says. He can't say that's not a guilty relief. Now that it’s not a hypothetical, it’s becoming crystal clear to him exactly how much he doesn’t want to die. Especially not here, where Papyrus might never know what happened to him. He’s been so stupid. "Just saying."

“I heard you.” Edge loops the collar around Sans's throat. Against his bones, the collar is so crammed with magic that it feels warm. It resonates with protection and strange tenderness and a fierce teeth-bared possessiveness that’s all Edge. The inadvertent brush of Edge’s fingers against his spine makes him shiver.

Edge closes the buckle and pulls his hands away, and it's done. Just like that. Edge sits back on his heels, considering Sans. His eyes burn with something bittersweet, both satisfaction and regret.

With wary fingers, Sans touches the collar. It isn't tight. The leather is soft. For something that's wrapped around his throat, it's actually surprisingly comfortable. It's just that he can feel the magic heavy as barometric pressure, whispering, _mine to protect. mine to keep. mine._

Which is when, like an idiot, Sans realizes that this isn't a secondhand collar that Edge kept in his inventory in case Red's got destroyed. He's felt the magic in Red's collar and it's got a subtly different feel that’s more feral possession than tenderness. Red wouldn’t let it be any other way.

Sans says, "Uh, Edge..."

When he doesn't finish, Edge raises his brows. "Yes?"

He thought Edge hated him once. Then he thought Edge had him confused with Red. Edge was going to lose interest any day now. Edge couldn't really mean it. But he can’t argue with that magic layered into the collar meant for him, bright and intense and _real_.

(Ha. Like they needed to be in any more trouble.)

Sans lets go of the collar. Awkwardly, he thumps Edge on the shoulder. "Nothing. Never mind. Thanks for the accessory. I'll give it back as soon as we're done, good as new."

“If you like,” Edge says neutrally. He tugs Sans's hood up over his head. "Keep this up. If it comes to a fight, I want you to run. I can handle myself better if I’m not distracted keeping you alive. Get to cover and stay there until I come for you.”

“No arguments here,” Sans says.

“Good.” Edge gets up off his knees, brushing the gray (dusty) snow off his pants. “We’re better off walking to the house instead of taking a shortcut into an unknown situation. Stay close to me and keep quiet.”

“Uh,” Sans says. Edge stops to look at him, head cocked, and Sans averts his eyes to the nearest fascinating tree. “Yeah. Listen. There was something in the void.”

“Something?” Edge asks sharply.

“Someone.” Without Sans’s permission, his voice goes hushed. Just two kids in a bed in the lab, whispering so they don’t catch the good doctor’s attention. It was never good to interrupt his work. He’d make them pay for it one way or another. “I think he sent us here. So if we could avoid running into him again, that’d be great.”

The last three words shake. In the long silence that follows, Sans can hear the questions Edge wants to ask. What Edge says is, “No shortcuts. Duly noted. We’ll discuss it when we get to the house.”

“Sure,” Sans says, meaning _like hell we will._ “Lay on, McGruff.”

The joke falls flat, but he knew it would. There’s a fleeting touch to his shoulder, the one where he can still feel the oily echo of Gaster’s touch. He manages not to flinch away like this sickness is contagious, like it’ll cling to Edge’s hand like the goo clung to his gloves. Bully for him. Then Edge turns and starts walking.

For once Edge doesn’t fall into sheepdog position; he walks a couple steps in front of Sans, close enough that Sans will run into him if he stops suddenly. Edge’s back is to him. Carefully, Sans reaches for his magic and shapes an attack. He’s half-expecting for nothing to happen, like clawing at the void to try to find a door at all over again, but the bone attack comes easily to hand. It’s like nothing’s wrong with him at all.

Edge can handle himself or he wouldn’t have survived. If things go sideways hard enough that Sans has to fight, they’re both dead anyway. He’s never been a fighter.

Still. He needs to know. Just in case.

He lets the attack crumble into dust in his fingers. Slowly, as they work their way through the trees, his hand drifts back to the collar. It hums beneath his touch. Hard to deny that it’s there. Harder to deny what it means.

He shoves both hands into his pockets instead and tries to put it out of his mind. At the moment, he’s got much better things to be afraid of.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in the end notes

They walk.

Sans has patrolled the woods outside Snowdin so many times that he could do it in his sleep even if he didn’t have overactive spatial awareness working for him. Things are different here. The trees that were cleared out to make room for houses and puzzles and, well, _people_ are still standing. There are the ruins of buildings, windows broken and doors kicked down, burnt out until the scorched wooden frames stand out like bare bones. This place was alive, once, and not that long ago. Less than a hundred years, maybe. These houses were standing when Tori’s kids died.

As they pass one of the houses, Snowdrake peeks through the gaping doorway. He’s filthy and he looks half-starved. His eyes are bright and feral as he stares at them, poised to bolt or fight. When Edge looks right at him, Snowdrake flinches and disappears back into the darkness.

Edge turns back to Sans and signs, his hands swift and fluent, _harmless._

Speaking in hands comes as easily to him as if it hasn’t been six years. Sans asks, _the other two?_

Expression tight, Edge shakes his head. Not like Chilldrake and Icecap are equally harmless. Like there’s no Chilldrake and Icecap to worry about anymore.

Sans swallows. Nods. They keep going.

Despite the unnerving atmosphere, there’s too much time to think. They’re trying not to attract attention and Edge needs to concentrate. Sans can’t run his mouth to turn his thoughts off. They spin like a certifuge around the unavoidable truth: his paranoia was right. Gaster is alive. Alive enough, anyway. Sans was stupid enough to hope he’d gotten free but there Gaster was in the dark, waiting for him to fuck up like he always does. Letting Gaster drop, trying to forget, running from the city and from science altogether, keeping secrets from Papyrus-- none of it mattered. There _is_ no being free, not from Gaster and not from the things that he’s done.

He wanted so bad to be wrong.

As they get closer to town, Edge stops him more often. They step over razor wire strung between trees, pit traps with vicious spikes, and sharp-toothed, rusty bear traps hidden in the snow. Edge must’ve set some of the traps themselves; Sans recognizes Papyrus’s designs even if these are twenty times more likely to make people bleed. They work their way around the outside of the town, far enough back in the woods that Sans can barely see the distant lights of what he thinks is Grillby’s in the oncoming dusk. The silence is punctuated by the occasional far off yelp and bursts of loud, mean laughter.

Nice place, in other words. Very homey.

By the time they start creeping towards town, working their way down once they’re past the main street, he barely flinches at each loud noise. He’s already as flinched as it gets. The woods feel haunted with violence that hasn’t happened yet. He fixates on Edge’s back and the drumbeat thought in his head of _all we need to do is get to the house. All we need to do is get to the house. All we need to do--_

Edge stops so suddenly that Sans runs into him. Jerkily, Edge grabs him by the shoulder. His grip is too tight. When Sans looks up at him, Edge’s face is like stone. 

It takes Sans a second to register that he knows the empty husk of a house they’re standing behind. Home sweet home. There isn’t much still standing. Whoever tore their safe haven down was very, very thorough. One corner of the house juts out of the ground, and on it is graffitied the stylized head of a rabbit.

Still holding Sans too tight, Edge starts to pull him back into the woods and deeper cover. They don’t get very far.

A bunny steps from behind the remaining bit of wall. Sans knows her, because he knows everybody. Clover, Drunk Bunny’s niece, who works at the shop part-time while she goes to college in the capital to be a healer. Except the Clover he knows never smiles like that, mean as hell and fit to break her face. Her attention is all for Edge. “Well, well, well. Look who’s not dead.”

Someone who actually starts their bad villain act with ‘well, well, well’ is going to try to kill him. Insult to injury. At least the kid isn’t the type to monologue. 

When Edge gives him a shove towards the woods, not breaking eye contact with Clover, Sans goes. All he’d be in this situation is a distraction and, well, he’s never been the heroism type. Edge has this handled.

He continues to think that when he sees the second bunny step out behind Clover, and the third, and even the fourth and fifth. It’s when the sixth one shows up that he starts to get a little concerned. He slows, then stops.

Nope. It’s fine. Edge is fine. Six of them, yeah, okay, but Edge is a trained killer (and it’s pretty fucked up that that’s comforting right now instead of horrifying) and this is Edge’s turf and he’s _fine_.

(Edge is probably used to fighting with Red or Undyne at his back. Red isn’t here to help him. He’s alone.)

“Clo,” says one of the other bunnies. Al, his name is Al, Clover’s brother. Good kid. Went to school with Papyrus. Sans remembers him trailing after his sister and her twin, always a couple steps too slow. “The runt--”

“No point in following him,” Clover says, still trying to stare Edge down and not succeeding. “He’ll just blip out. He’ll probably show up in the middle of the fight and try to shank somebody like a chickenshit. That’s fine. That way you can watch when we kill him the way you killed _my_ brother.”

Nobody’s coming after him. Even without the shortcuts, Sans can just… go. Get gone. He knows how to make himself scarce in the woods, the better to scare the shit out of people for a laugh, and he’ll just wait there until Edge comes to find him. There’s no reason to linger here. He has no excuse for why he hunkers down behind the joint where two trees have grown together. The smell of bark and sap fill his nose. There’s dirty meltwater soaking one of his slippers. It all seems hyperreal, like everything leading up to this moment has been the dream and this is waking up.

“Is that what this is about?” Edge asks, sounding bored. “I doubt he’d want you to throw away your life to avenge his. Or Al’s. Does that matter to you at all?”

“Don’t talk like you knew him!” Clover snarls. Behind her, Al winces and looks away. Other four bunnies look steady and murderous. Sans’s mind won’t stop helpfully providing him names and details: he gave this one free 'dogs, knows this one’s mom, watched this one and that one grow up through their gawky teenage years. They’re not in striped shirts, but they’re all still goddamn kids.

“You’re right,” Edge says. “And because he was your brother, I’m giving you the chance to walk away. All of you.”

Sans is a certified bullshit artist and he knows it when he hears it; Edge isn’t just talking shit to make himself seem too much of a threat to fuck with. He’s dead serious. If he’s worried about the odds, even a judge can’t see it.

There’s a ripple of nervous laughter through the gathered bunnies. Al shifts uneasily, looking at his sister, who only has eyes for Edge. She spits on the ground and attacks.

Sans isn't a fighter but he's seen his share of them. He thought so, anyway. He's never seen anything like the hell that breaks loose when the magic starts flying. No taking turns, no breaks, no brakes.

Edge is in the heart of it. He's terrifying, the one point of grace and control in the middle of the chaos. Edge weaves between attacks, fluid, somehow managing to whip bones at them even as he's dodging. It’s horrifyingly beautiful to watch.

Al hangs back, an attack in his hand, hesitating, until Clover gets hit and cries out, more in anger than pain. Then his expression hardens and he lashes out at Edge. He hits hard, clearly does more damage than any of the others, and Edge stumbles. Just for a second, but it throws his rhythm off. Edge is favoring his right side a little, guarding his ribs.

Six on one. They don't have to be better at fighting than a trained guard. They just have to keep taking bites out of his HP like scavengers.

Edge has a lot of HP to burn. He’s fine. He's got this.

(Sans's fingers are digging into the tree like he's going to gouge holes in the wood.)

Edge is smart. Better to pick them off one at a time. He focuses on the one who drew first blood, all his attention for Al. Poor bastard. Edge's bones aren't blunt, meant to leave bruises but not to do permanent damage; he carves holes in the people he hits. There's blood on the snow.

It's not long before Al wobbles on his feet, one hand clamped to an ugly-looking wound in his stomach, and then goes down on one knee. He shakes his head, ears flopping, off-guard. Vulnerable. And even from here, Sans sees Edge hesitate.

Then Edge turns Al's soul blue and plants him face-first into the snow. Hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs and stun him. Edge leaves him alive, and he moves on to the next biggest threat: Clover.

(Some cold, cold part of Sans thinks, _you should have killed him._ )

Putting Al down had a cost. Edge is bleeding too, his movements a little less fluid. His HP is pretty far down, although Sans doesn't want to distract him with a check right now to find out how far. 200-something, maybe? Less than half. There's no break in the fighting for Edge to heal himself back to full. If Red was here--

(Frisk is gone. Red told him that much. No resets, no second chances. Dead is dead is dead.)

In the corner of his eye, Sans sees Al start to stir. He sees the attack being shaped in Al's hand. He sees that Edge doesn't see it. 

Fuck his life.

Sans shoves Al back to the ground. Al squawks, a sharp sound that carries; Edge's head whips around, and his eyes widen when he sees Al's soul burning blue. It's a moment of distraction and Edge pays for it in a new furrow carved in his jacket. White bone shows through the gash.

"Sorry," Sans says under his breath. To Edge, to Al, to Papyrus? All of the above, maybe. He can't fight but he can keep Al occupied from here. He can buy time.

As bad as Edge is hurting (and Sans thinks it's pretty bad), Clover looks worse. When the next bone attack slices clean through her shoulder, she staggers back, magic dying in her hand. For a moment, she looks very young.

Edge's voice carries even over the distance and the humming, violent song of magic when he calls out, "Take your people and go!"

(Sans's notes on the resets back in his lab. In his own scribbled handwriting, underlined twice, the ink gritty with dust and useless water: _he spared them._ )

Clover cries over her shoulder, "Al!"

The thing about blue magic: it fucks with gravity. Weighs things and people down. But it isn't shackles. It can be fought off. All it takes is determination.

Al starts to struggle to his knees. Sans pushes harder, his control hand shaking. Al is a big guy and his sister is calling him; he can't get off his knees, but he props himself up and raises one hand with his attack already burning into life.

It isn’t instinct. It’s a cold equation. It’s a choice.

Al grunts when the blaster scorches him. A small sound, easily lost under the roar of the blaster firing. Maybe it’s only in Sans’s head. And then Al’s shadow, outlined in the searing white light, fractures, scatters and is gone.

Clover screams for her brother, a desperate sound, a mourning wail. Sans thinks of a red scarf in the snow.

The sound of his soul breaking is like an icy lake cracking open underfoot, a plunge into freezing dark water, a noise like death. There is a second of blinding pain before everything goes numb. Distant. He can't feel his soul ache. He can't feel it beating. It's like it was lifted painlessly, cleanly, surgically out of his chest. He's empty.

Darkness pushes in on him. His ears are ringing. Distantly, he can still hear fighting. He starts to go down. Blacking out? Maybe this is why they call it Falling--

No.

No. Not now. Not here. He’s not dying here.

Get up.

The snow is an inch from his face. He can hear himself heaving in deep, sick breaths. It occurs to him that this is what Al saw before he died. Not much of a view to go out on.

Papyrus. Papyrus must be home by now. Maybe he's cooking. Maybe he's with the kid, or Undyne, or Red. He's somewhere warm, and he's safe, and if Sans dies here, he'll never know. He'll have to wonder for the rest of his life, telling people that of course Sans is alive, of course Sans will be back any day now. Not believing it. Left behind.

Get up.

He's not done yet.

Get _up_.

He breathes. Hangs onto the world by his fingertips, shuddering, until the shadows crowding out his vision grudgingly recede. There’s a cold sweat broken out across his bones. He doesn’t die. He must’ve just been passing out. Somehow getting his stiff limbs to cooperate, he pushes himself up off the ground. Staggers to his feet. His head feels twenty pounds heavier than normal, sagging on his spine. He's an excellent target, free EXP, but the battlefield is empty. 

Except for Edge. Edge is there, glowering down the road and gnawing at some dried ramen. It's the angriest ramen-eating Sans has seen since Alphys found that one review of Mew Mew Kissy Cutie 2.

Alive. Five more deaths on his shoulders, bloody, beaten and furious, but goddamn it, still alive.

Sans laughs, a cracked and hysterical sound that hurts his head. He might be in shock. Then he leans against the tree and pukes. Takes a while, even after he runs out of spent magic, but it's been an eventful few minutes. His head is swimming with dust on snow, clotted black with blood. The sound makes it pretty easy for Edge to find him. It's not long before he hears Edge stomping closer, snarling, "What the fuck did you think you were doing? I told you not to--"

Edge cuts himself off as soon as he gets close enough to take in the whole pathetic scene. A pause. Snow crunches under his boots as he kneels beside Sans. His hand settles at the middle of Sans's spine, a comforting weight that stays there as Sans tries and fails to catch his breath.

More gently, too gently, Edge sighs, "I told you to stay out of it.”

“I know,” Sans says. It comes out wrong, so hollow it could have its own echo.

“I was trying to spare you this.”

"Thought they were going to kill you.”

"You underestimate me," Edge says, but he sounds more sad than angry. "I didn't know you could fight."

"I can't." The inside of his mouth tastes like a horrorshow. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and turns to look at Edge just in time to catch his grimace of distaste. Welp. At least Edge's priorities are in order. Murder: no big deal. Maybe getting some puke on his sleeve: horrifying. "You okay?"

"I had food with me,” Edge says. “I healed. I'm fine. Are you all right?"

No. No, Sans really isn't. His soul is like a stone in his chest. Without its steady, dull ache, he feels too quiet inside, like the fact that it's stopped hurting means that it's stopped beating. He feels like the walking dead. He’s terrified.

And there's absolutely nothing either of them can do about it right now. He can't whip his soul out while they're in the open. Telling Edge would be a distraction he doesn't need when he's trying to keep himself alive. Either Sans will bite it before they get to relative safety or he won’t.

"I can walk." Sans wobbles a little as he straightens but he's fine. It's fine. "Where are we going?"

Edge’s eyes widen a fraction, like Sans might as well have just admitted that he’s maybe dying. Then he shakes his head; Edge knows as well as he does that they can’t stay here to fix whatever’s wrong with him. "Undyne's. It’ll be safe there. Probably."

"Probably?"

“Probably is the best we’re going to get.” Edge puts a hand on Sans’s back, a brief and steadying touch, and Sans realizes belatedly that he was swaying. There’s a terrible sadness in Edge’s eyes but he doesn’t try to be kind. Good. Sans thinks that might break him. “I know a faster way through Waterfall. Some cave systems that smugglers use. It should be deserted. Come on.”

They walk away from the ruin of the house. Sans doesn’t let himself look back at the scorched place where he killed a kid who was just trying to protect his sister. There’s no point. It’ll follow him anyway.

What’s one more ghost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mention of the offscreen deaths of the Underfell versions of Chilldrake and Icecap. Sans kills one named OC and Edge kills five offscreen. Sans's soul breaks again. Vomiting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the end notes

The caves are narrow and winding, filled with cold and brackish water up to the ankle. It takes all of Sans's concentration to take one step, then another, then another, his thoughts anesthetized to match his soul. It's honestly a relief. He can feel Edge's eyes on him like a hand on the back of his neck.

He doesn't die. He doesn't even pass out, though he gets sickeningly dizzy once or twice. At this point, he'll take whatever luck he can get.

Finally, they come stumbling out of the caves. Well, Sans stumbles and Edge glides out like something predatory because Edge is too great and terrible to sweat sloshing through a flooded cave in high-heeled boots. There's no one around. The short walk to Undyne's house is deserted.

After seeing the ruins of Snowdin, it's kind of uncanny how Undyne's place looks the same. There are no boards on the windows, no bristling traps on the lawn, not even a sign warning people off. The training dummy is missing its head but that's about it.

A brief touch to his shoulder drags his attention back. Edge looks at him like a bomb that was supposed to go off and didn't, which is the most dangerous kind; it means some poor bastard is gonna have to risk their life to go find out why.

"Stay behind you?" Sans guesses.

"Stay behind me," Edge agrees.

Yeah. This Undyne probably tends to spear first and ask questions second. Sans doubts that she gets many friendly callers.

He falls into Edge's shadow as Edge goes to the door and hammers on it. Then Edge sidesteps fast, herding Sans with him, just in time to avoid being clocked by the door as it swings open like the arc of a scythe. Several spears puncture the muddy patch of earth where Edge was standing.

And there Undyne is in the doorway. An Undyne, anyway. Her scales are dull like she's run herself ragged. One of her fins is shredded into scraps. Her right arm up to just above the elbow has been replaced by a glossy metal prosthetic that has Alphys's fingerprints all over it.

"Fuhuhu! Bring it, pu--" Undyne stops as abruptly as if she walked into a punch when she sees Edge. She grabs the doorframe, the wood creaking under her fingers, and there’s a look in her eye that’s too vulnerable for Sans to have the right to notice.

She and Edge stare at each other. For a long few moments, neither of them speak. Then Edge brings his fist to his chest and inclines his head in a sardonic little bow. “Captain. You look like shit.”

Undyne’s grin twists into a simple baring of teeth. She drops the spear, reaches out and grabs the front of Edge's jacket, hauling him close so she can snarl in his face, "Where the fuck have you been?"

"It's a long and complicated story," Edge says, unresisting in her grip. "I'd rather tell it inside."

Undyne hisses through her teeth. "Eight fucking months! I oughta string you up in Snowdin and let the rabbits pull you apart like a wishbone!"

"Considering that I just killed most of them, you might find the results a little disappointing," Edge says.

Undyne eyes him. Then she laughs, a harsh sound, and lets go of Edge's jacket so she can punch him in the shoulder hard enough that Edge grunts and staggers back a half-step. "Good. That was your mess to clean up. Get your bony asses in here before I change my mind." Undyne glances at Sans, mostly tucked behind Edge. "Why are you being so quiet, you never shut--"

A second later, there's a spear in his face. Sans didn't even see her move. It would've gone through him before he noticed if Edge hadn’t caught it mid-thrust. It blazes in Edge's hand, burning him through the gloves, but you couldn't tell by Edge's face.

"Who the fuck is that?" Undyne demands, her voice low and dangerous. "Where's Sans?"

"Sans is safe," Edge says. "In an alternate universe, but safe."

Undyne's eyebrows shoot up. Skeptically, she says, "An alternate universe."

"Where we've been for the last eight months," Edge says. He tips his head at Sans. "This is an alternate Sans."

Undyne looks at Sans again, disbelieving. Sans tugs his hood back, letting her see his teeth and his unscarred face. Says, "Sup."

Undyne's eye falls on the collar. Her mouth thins and she gives Edge a hard look. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"I'll tell you everything," Edge says. There's a little strain in his voice. Not pain, she might as well not be burning him, but impatience. "Inside."

Undyne growls, a rising noise that ends in a "ngah!" that ricochets off the cavern walls. The spear crumbles in Edge's grip. Angrily, Undyne points inside. "This better be good, lieutenant. Move!"

She looks murderous, but Edge goes through the door, giving her his back. If Edge thinks it's safe, then Sans isn't going to argue with him. He follows while Undyne glares at him like she's trying to scorch his bones.

The inside of her house is pretty much the same. There's even a piano. And on top of the piano, there is the ugliest cat Sans has ever seen in his life.

Edge makes a noise like he just got stabbed. When Sans glances at him, alarmed, Edge has one hand clamped over his mouth.

The cat scrambles to its feet, sliding a little on the glossy surface of the piano (Undyne makes an incoherent sound of pure rage) and launches itself off the edge. It's the size of Papyrus's dog and looks like it’s been prematurely taxidermied but it trills sweetly as it skitters over to Edge, tail crooked like a question mark. Edge scoops it up into his arms and it slams its huge head into his chin with enough force to concuss somebody. Its meow sounds like a complaint.

Scritching under its chin, Edge murmurs, "Stupid beast."

"Yeah," Undyne says gruffly. She slams the door. "Your damned cat showed up here not long after you went missing. He shed over everything I own and scratched my fucking bedposts. It's like living with Sans."

Edge snorts. To the cat, he croons, "What has she been feeding you? I can feel your ribs."

"Those are fat rolls," Undyne says sourly. She crosses her arms. "Well? You said you were gonna explain, so do it already!"

The cat snuggled contentedly to his chest, Edge begins, "I told you, we were dragged to another universe--"

Let Edge handle the explanations. Sans tunes it out. There's one piece of furniture in the room that doesn't match, covered in a sheet and shoved against the wall. He recognizes it. The machine. He didn't even know for certain that Red _had_ a machine, let alone that it was in one piece after the fire. For the first time in hours, he feels something that isn't terrified exhaustion.

Maybe. Maybe...

If his soul doesn't kill him first.

"Hey," he says. Both Edge and Undyne look at him sharply, falling silent. It's weird how much alike they look in that moment, like siblings. "Can I borrow your bathroom? I wanna wash the dust off."

"I don't know you, asshole," Undyne says, indignant. "I'm not gonna let you just wander around my house!"

"I'll vouch for him," Edge says. Undyne gives him a look, her expression both worried and pissed off, and he stares evenly back. "You can trust him. I do."

"Because he's a version of Sans?" Undyne scoffs. "That's a better reason _not_ to trust him!"

"I can't argue with that," Sans says.

"Don't help," Edge tells him. Ha. As if anything Sans does can be qualified as helpful. To Undyne, Edge says, "You see the collar. Anything he does, you can take out of my hide. This one is harmless."

Al would probably argue, if he still could argue anything, but by the standards here, Sans is as harmless as it gets. When Undyne gives him a hard stare, eye narrowed, he shrugs and tries to look too pathetic to kill. It’s not difficult.

Irritably, Undyne growls and points in the direction of her bathroom. It's within her line of sight, no opportunity for Sans to go poking around in the rest of her house, which is probably the only reason she agrees. "If you touch my stuff, I'll break your fingers."

"Okee dokee," Sans says. He's glad to slink away and gladder to shut himself in the bathroom, although he knows Undyne too well to think she wouldn't happily kick a door down.

The bathroom is cool and serene, painted in shades of blue and green. The overhead lights are gentle. There's a mirror over the sink. He accidentally catches his own eyes for a second

( _murderer_ , whispers the judge)

and averts them fast, his throat tight like he's being choked.

He unzips Red's jacket and pulls his shirts up to his collarbones, baring his ribs and the soul beneath it. There's a new and ugly crack bisecting his soul. Pale light is welling out. He didn’t bleed light after the last three cracks. He doubts it’s a good sign.

He takes a minute to brace himself, then touches it. Nothing. It's numb. Inert. There’s no flood of stale panic and grief. He can feel the pressure of his own fingers, a queasy underwater feeling like touching a dislocated bone, but it doesn't hurt. It's still beating. It flutters faster against his fingers like a panicked bird, like his body is having a physiological reaction to the pain he can't feel. His vitals must be interesting right now. Shame Gaster missed it.

There's too much damage. There's no fixing it himself. Maybe there never was, but definitely not now. And with the light leaking out of him like that (is that his life?) he doubts he can wait until they get back to Red. Not when he doesn't know how long they'll be stuck here.

A weird, shocky kind of calm settles over him. He takes his hand out from under his ribs and lets his shirts fall back down. At least they hide the faint (too faint) glow. He zips the jacket back up, another layer between his soul and the world. It won't protect him at all but it makes him feel a little better. He washes his hands. Splashes some water on his face. Leaves the bathroom.

Just in time to hear Undyne say, deeply unimpressed, "So it was a universe of wimpy babies."

"By your standards, yes," Edge says dryly. The cat is now draped around his neck like a furry, purring scarf.

A little plaintively, she asks, “And you’re really sure the humans don't have giant punching robots or anything?"

"Not that I've seen," Edge says.

"Ughhhh." Undyne catches Sans out of the corner of her eye. "And you brought a wimpy baby version of Sans home with you."

"Pretty much," Sans agrees.

"I didn't think anything could be worse than real Sans. Well, lieutenant, I guess you better stay here so I can make sure you didn't get wimp rubbed off on you." Grinning like a barracuda, Undyne says, "I'll beat it out of you if I have to! And, uh, your nerd can stay if he doesn't bleed, dust or cry on any of my stuff."

"Well, there go my plans for the evening," Sans says. A weak joke, but he's not really feeling it tonight.

"Thank you," Edge says to Undyne. It's solemn as a vow. 

Undyne looks at him, warm and fond. Then she punches him in the sternum. Edge doesn't quite double over but it's close. The cat yowls sullenly.

"That's for not showing up to work for eight months, asshole," Undyne says.

"I didn't do it on purpose, you harpy," Edge says, rubbing his sternum.

"I don’t want to hear excuses!" Undyne says. Then she glances over at the clock, her mouth flattening into a thin, tired line. "Crap. I've got to go give my report to the king. But when I get back, you better be ready, cupcake, because we've got a shitload of work to do to get this place back in line!"

“I’m looking forward to it,” Edge says with all apparent honesty.

That puts the grin back on her face. She strides over to the door, opens it, and pauses dramatically in the doorway to glare at Sans because of course she does. “And you! You’re goddamn lucky Paps was with you. If it was up to me, I’d leave you to fend for yourself.”

“Duly noted,” Sans says. “Thanks.”

Grudgingly satisfied, she goes through the door and slams it behind her hard enough to make the house vibrate. Good to know some things don’t change.

Once they can no longer hear her stomping away, Edge exhales and relaxes marginally. “That went well.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sans says. “She seems pretty pissed that I’m here.”

“Yes, but you’re in my collar, which means she’s not going to do anything about it. You can trust her that much, at least.” Edge studies him, then crosses his arms. “We’re safe for the moment. Now tell me what happened in the woods.”

Heh. Safe. Right. Sans rubs a hand over his face. “Edge…”

When he falls into silence, Edge says, “Don’t lie to me, Sans. I’m not blind and we don’t have time for bullshit here. If you’re compromised, I need to know.”

 _I need help._ Three simple words locked in his throat, rusted there after months of not letting himself say it.

Gently disentangling the cat, who clings to his jacket and has to be pried off, Edge sets it down and comes closer. “Tell me,” he says, more reassurance than order, like an outstretched hand to a skittish cat.

Sans can't force the words out. So he unzips his hoodie and shrugs out of it, which makes Edge's brows lift, and grabs the hem of his shirts. "Just don't freak out, okay?"

"Oh, yes, that's very reassur--" Edge starts. Then Sans pulls his shirts over his head, his ribcage bare to someone else's eyes for the first time in six years, and Edge's mouth snaps shut.

For a moment, Sans thinks (hopes) that Edge is going to say something dismissive. _Oh, it's not that bad. You're worried over nothing. Stop whining._ Sans has seen Red, he knows his soul could be much, much worse. But there's naked horror and fury in the look that Edge gives him, like Sans is halfway to dust.

"That needs to be fixed," Edge says, like he’s working hard to sound calm. "Now. Would you rather it be Undyne?”

The thought of letting anyone in his head isn’t great, but a stranger would be worse. He sees enough of his own Undyne in this version to trust her not to fuck over Edge, at least, but he doesn't know her. Not like he knows Edge. Not like he _trusts_ Edge.

So. That leaves one option, doesn't it.

"What do you need me to do?" Sans asks.

Edge exhales. Apparently he wasn't any more keen on the idea of Undyne handling this than Sans was. "We’ll use the bed. You might fall otherwise."

Yeah, Undyne'll be just thrilled about the two of them doing this on her bed. He can't work up the will to argue. He follows Edge into Undyne’s bedroom, kicks his filthy slippers and off and sits awkwardly in the middle of the bed, his back against the headboard. Edge removes his boots as well and moves to face him. The cat jumps up on the bed and curls against Edge’s hip, watching Sans through one half-lidded yellow eye.

"Bring your soul out," Edge says. When Sans starts to reach under his ribs, Edge frowns. "No, just-- the other way." His frown deepens. "You don't know how to do that."

"I told you, I didn't get this in health class," Sans says. Okay, and he'd ignored that chapter of the book because he figured it was for fleshier monsters. He’s an idiot like that. He curls his fingers around his soul, wincing involuntarily to brace for the pain even though he knows the damned thing is numb. It feels just as weird the second time.

Edge watches him, his frown managing to get even deeper somehow. If he’s not careful, it’s going to stick that way. When Sans shoves his soul towards him, Edge doesn’t move to take it. Instead he says, "Cup your hands and hold it that way. You're digging your fingers in. Do it gently."

Sans exhales and shifts his grip. Some of the pressure eases off. It's still uncomfortable but that's mostly the unwelcome intimacy of holding his soul out in the open, all his damage plain for Edge to see. "Just do whatever you're going to do."

Edge pulls his gloves off. Then he cups his hands under Sans's. His are bigger, easily surrounding him, and so warm. Edge leans closer, examining the soul without shame. Even before the new crack, it was a fucking mess. The scars are no match for Red’s but the ones he has are long and ugly. It took a long time for them to heal, with his HP, and they kept reopening for months. There are patches that have gone as gray and rough as rock. It's dull, like the light pouring through the new wound is leeching from everything else.

Edge glances up at Sans. "How bad is the pain?"

"I can't feel anything," Sans says, hating the catch in his voice. He glances away, fixing his eyes on the bedspread. There are little fishbones, unexpectedly cute. Probably a gift from Alphys. It’s stained here and there with blood that didn’t quite wash out. He wonders how much of it is Edge’s.

Edge hisses softly through his teeth. "I need to get as much as this fixed as possible in one go. It won't be gentle."

"S'okay," Sans says. He wasn't really expecting gentle anyway. He knows there's pain on the other side of this terrible numbness. "I can take it."

"I know you can," Edge says, which is unexpected. Funny. All it took for Edge to think he's competent is a little murder. "I'm going to touch you now."

Sans closes his eyes. His mouth tugs up at one corner in a smile he doesn't feel. "Okay."

The touch of Edge's fingers is light, barely any pressure, and the numbness means that there’s no pain. Sans flinches anyway, bracing himself. From the book, he's expecting another person inside his head, immediate and invasive, no room to lie or deflect or cover it with jokes. Edge can _see_ him.

It's not like that. It takes several seconds, his soul pounding in his fingers with a rush of anticipatory horror, for him to feel Edge's presence at all over his own panic. It's quiet. Undemanding. Sans thinks of sitting on the back steps beside Edge, keeping him company. Of Edge driving him home from judgment, that safe, intimate darkness broken only by the passing streetlights.

Edge is strength that can be used to protect or to hurt. The frustrated desire to be good, knowing he can’t afford to be. Regret so bitter Sans can taste it. Warmth and steadiness. Sans can see that but not any deeper; he can’t read Edge’s thoughts or see his memories. Maybe Edge can’t see any deeper into him. Maybe.

Sans's throat is dry. It clicks when he swallows. He can feel Edge's deliberate battlefield calm and the fear underneath it. Edge is waiting. Edge is giving him a minute. Sans doesn't know if Edge can feel how grateful he is for that.

He's as braced for it as he'll ever be. It's just pain. It's not like he's never felt it before.

( _the brittle snap of a finger like a slim branch breaking_ )

"Okay," Sans says. "I'm ready."

He's not.

The feeling of magic getting pushed directly into his soul hits him like a wall of water, a tidal wave, shoving him down, rolling him under. It's warm and it's heavy and it's dark. Overwhelmed, he pushes it away like he pushes everything away and it doesn't matter. It's like fighting gravity. He struggles (his body isn't even moving, his bones are heavy as lead, Edge’s fingers are so hot they burn, Edge is murmuring words he can’t hear), trying to claw his way back to the light, and fighting just pushes him deeper. _Edge_ pushes him deeper, holding his head under, unbending and merciless, until it comes pouring in his eyesockets and his mouth, filling the inside of his skull, leaving no room for anything else.

His struggling slows, dying down to nothing. He stops fighting like he always, always does. Even without resistance, Edge doesn't stop pushing him deeper into that kind, warm darkness. It’s quiet there. Is this a baptism or a drowning?

Deeper. Deeper still.

Dark darker yet darker. 

_very interesting what do the two of you think what do the two of you what do the two what do what_

There's nothing.

No. There are stars.

\-- and then the pressure is gone.

Sans lurches back into his body, sucking in a breath. He's alone in his head. He feels too light without that weight holding him down, like somebody stripped the marrow out of his bones. It takes him a dizzy moment of wondering who turned the lights out before it occurs to him to open his eyes.

Edge looks like wrung out, like he just blew through most of his energy trying to pour it into a cracked cup. Probably because that's exactly what happened. There's sweat on his face. His hands are still cupped under Sans's, steady as a rock, keeping him from dropping his soul from his nerveless fingers. Sans would probably just slump over if he didn't have the headboard at his back. The magic holding his bones together feels molten and slow. He's warm, really warm, for the first time in months.

His eyes drift down to his soul. The new fracture is closed, no longer bleeding light, although the scar is brighter than the rest of his soul. It still looks banged up and half-dead. Some part of him was hoping that Edge had fixed it, every scar and calcified patch smoothed back to normal. Apparently the universe hasn't quite beaten the optimism out of him. Who knew.

"Twenty minutes is the best I can do in one sitting," Edge says, as if he's still in Sans's head. He sounds a little out of breath. Twenty minutes? It didn’t even feel like two. "On the plus side, you aren't actively dying now."

Despite his acidic tone, there's an apology underneath, like his best wasn't good enough. Sans shakes his head because he can't make with the mouth words and the room swims. He stops doing that. Bad idea.

"You're not saying anything," Edge says, clearly somewhat alarmed.

"Feels weird," Sans says thickly. He feels too high, is what he means, straight to the slow-mo room-spinning stage without the gentleness of a slow buildup. The other closest comparison is when Red fucked him past exhaustion, all those endorphins loose in his system, and he's not going there. It feels dangerously good. "'M kinda fucked up."

Edge's hands tighten around his. He demands, rapid-fire, "Fucked up how? Are you still numb? Are you hurting?"

The eerie numbness faded out at some point and the gnawing ache is back. It's dull right now but he's pretty sure that's just whatever Edge did to him. It's going to hurt like a bitch when this wears off.

"Just kinda fuzzy," Sans says before Edge works himself up into a panic attack or something. "Spacey."

"Sp--" Some realization strikes Edge. His cheeks heat up, which is hilarious. Sans was afraid maybe nothing would be hilarious ever again. "Oh."

"Did you break my brain?" Sans can't work up any particular animosity over it. Being just smart enough to make himself miserable hasn't worked out great. Maybe he should try being pleasantly stupid for a while.

(Some part of him deep down is freaking the fuck out right now, but it's like the pain. It can wait its turn.)

"I didn't break your brain," Edge says defensively. "I told you I wouldn't be gentle!"

"Figured that meant it was gonna hurt.”

"Of course you did,” Edge sighs. “No, this happens to my brother too, particularly when I push a lot of magic into him at once. I should have expected--"

"Nope," Sans says. "Uh-uh. No guilt trip."

"As if you have room to talk about guilt." Edge strokes Sans's hand with a thumb, almost tentative, like Sans is going to let him get up in his soul but balk at a little hand touching. Sans closes his eyes, basking in the comfort of that small touch. "It'll pass. For now, you should put your soul back. You're shivering."

Oh. Right. Sans is just sitting here with his soul out in the open like he slapped his dick on the table in the middle of Grillby's. He actually forgot somehow. Reluctantly, he pulls his hands out of Edge's, switching his grip on his soul to something one-handed, and _fuck_ , okay, that hurts even through the comfortable haze. Fast, he shoves his soul back under his ribs. It's weirdly slick.

"It might help if you didn't touch it like you loathed its existence," Edge says, watching Sans with a frown. When Sans shrugs, wiping his hand on his shorts, Edge sighs and reaches into his inventory to pull out some kind of utilitarian looking square of food. "This will help. It isn't a formal offer of--"

Sans plucks the food out of his hand with slightly uncoordinated fingers and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. His HP is the same as it ever was, but the burn of magic going down his throat and spreading through his body does seem to steady him a little. He can think more clearly, which is not necessarily an improvement. Not as clear as if he was 100% sober, though. Hell, not even 70%. Small mercies.

Edge stares at him, completely taken aback. Sans laughs, laying his head back against the headboard. "'M wearing your collar. Freaking out about a little food is like closing the barn door after the horse skipped town."

"I. Yes. Well." Still blinking, Edge looks away. Almost to himself, he says, “You took the collar for safety’s sake. I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

“You’re not,” Sans agrees. “You’re a good guy.”

Edge scoffs bitterly. “You’ve seen what I am.”

“And you saw me kill somebody,” Sans says. His voice cracks on the word ‘kill’ and he tries to slap on a smile to cover it, even knowing it’s not fooling anybody. “Let’s just say we’re grading on a curve.”

Edge shakes his head, his expression tight around the eyes. “He didn’t give you a choice.”

Sans shrugs. “You said it yourself. You didn’t need my help. You would’ve been fine.”

“We’ll never know one way or the other,” Edge says. “But here we are, both alive. Despite your best efforts to the contrary.”

“I wasn’t trying to--” Sans stops. Rubs tiredly at his eyes. It doesn’t really matter what he was trying to do, lying about his soul for years now. He made Edge clean up his mess. If Edge wants to ream him out, that’s fair. “I was stupid. Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Edge says. “Kick yourself if you’d like but I’m not going to do it for you when you’ve finally decided to ask for help. It’ll only make you even more avoidant.”

Somehow that stings more than if Edge tore him a new one. Sans winces.

Gentler, Edge adds, “I’ll let both our brothers handle yelling at you when we get back.”

Sans gives Edge a sidelong look. “When?”

“When,” Edge repeats firmly. “I saw the machine.”

“Yeah,” Sans says. “Why didn’t it go up with the house?”

“Because my brother is paranoid enough to expect somebody to burn our house down,” Edge says dryly. “He hid it in the cellar of one of the ruins in the woods in a walled up room. He’s going to be so fucking smug about being right.”

There’s a wistful note to Edge’s voice, like he wants nothing more than to be listening to Red’s obnoxious _I told you so_. Sans wishes he could tell Edge that Red’s fine back home. With Edge gone, Red is gonna be anything but fine.

Edge shakes his head, visibly pulling himself back together. “In any case, he had a deal with Undyne that if anything happened to him, Dr. Alphys could have it.”

“And she couldn’t get anything out of it either,” Sans says. Another universal constant. Alphys the smartest monster still alive, but unlike Sans, she couldn’t remember it building it. She could reverse-engineer her own work and Sans’s but Gaster’s…

Well, nobody thinks like Gaster. Sans tries not to, anyway.

“It doesn’t matter,” Edge says. “My brother’s probably seen things you missed and vice versa. He left his notes in the machine. Between the two of you, you’ll get it working.”

A glance at Edge’s face proves that he believes that. He has faith in Sans, of all things. Maybe it’s because of a lack of better options. Maybe not. It makes Sans’s chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with his soul. He cracks a tired grin. “Is that an order?”

“Yes,” Edge says. “You can start in the morning. For now, you should get some rest while you can.”

And Edge starts to get off the bed.

Sans doesn't mean to grab him by the jacket. It's just something that happens and he's damned lucky he doesn't lose a hand for it. Edge gives him a sharp, searching look but he can't make himself let go.

Slowly, Edge sits down beside him, his back to the headboard, mirroring his posture. There’s a look on his face that Sans has only ever seen directed at Red.

Sans swallows. His voice comes out low. "I know you don't like touching people, but--"

Then Edge's arm is around him, pulling him against Edge’s side. Sans shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, pressing tighter into him. Edge is a little stiff, but as the seconds pass, his tension eases. He’s warm and he smells good, like leather and fancy soap. The cat clambers into Edge’s lap, turns itself around an excessive number of times, and settles in. The cat smells less good, but that’s all right. Sans wouldn’t want to try to bathe it either.

"I don't mind being touched," Edge says. The words are more vibration than sound, like the cat’s rasping purr.

"You freeze," Sans points out. Not that it's going to make him pull away to give Edge space.

"Because I'm not used to it.” Haltingly, like he’s expecting Sans to balk at any minute, Edge begins to pet Sans's arm. His voice is soft. "I like it when you touch me."

Oh. Well. Sans's face burns. Here he is, he’s half-naked and begging for Edge to touch him. He remember the intent in the collar, how sincere and how undeniable it is, how much he ( _doesn’t deserve it_ ) isn’t prepared to deal with it. This is probably cruel. He can’t find it in himself to pull away. Willpower has never been his strong point. He is, in fact, a selfish bastard. It’s the first time he’s felt safe since the park, Edge’s fingers on his throat, which feels like a lifetime ago instead of hours. He needs this.

“Go to sleep,” Edge says into Sans’s long silence. He sounds like he would sit here forever, a sentinel between Sans and the dark. "I'm here."

"I know," Sans says, sleep already rough in his voice. "Thanks."

Edge holds him a little tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dubcon soul touching (because Edge is the only available option), Edge accidentally shoves Sans into subspace. Somewhere Red is laughing his ass off.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Edge never really subscribed to the idea of hell. Sitting like this, with Sans’s bare bones under his hand and Sans’s head heavy on his chest, he’s starting to revise his opinion.

So many things he's wanted. Sans in his collar, taking food from his hand, sleeping in his arms. Sans's soul beneath his fingers. His wishes all perversely satisfied. All it took was getting dragged back to hell, leaving Red behind, and Sans nearly dying.

It's amazing the idiot is still alive. It's more amazing that he was conscious to go to Edge for help. Most of the damage wasn't even the new crack, although that was certainly bad enough; it was the fact that Sans's soul had been left to scar and calcify out of ignorance-- no, damn it, suicidal recklessness, because Sans is too fucking smart not to know something was very badly wrong before now. Edge wants to shake him until his teeth rattle and demand to know why he would do that to Papyrus, if no one else, why he would throw his life away as if it meant nothing. It would only give Sans another excuse to agree that yes, he is awful, no point in even trying to be better, which would get them nowhere.

More the fool Edge. In his attempt to separate Sans from Red and Red from Sans in his head, he'd forgotten that they originate from the same source code. The shame and the anger and the seething contempt for himself is the same, buried under a shallow layer of easy grins like a pit trap. He doesn't know the why of it. It's possible he never will, although that crystal clear memory of a phalange snapping gave him some unpleasant ideas. But he won't make the same mistake again.

He'll make all new ones, probably.

Sans makes a small, discontent noise, and Edge realizes he'd tightened his grip. He eases up and pets Sans’s arm in apology. (Sans's bones are so sleek to the touch, unscarred and lovely. All of Red’s pornographic descriptions didn't prepare him for feeling it himself.) Sans rubs his cheek on Edge's shoulder, making himself comfortable, and subsides.

As usual, Edge isn't the one who ends up paying for his mistakes. The newest crack hadn't come until he'd fucked up badly enough that Sans had to do his killing for him. Less than a day and Sans had compromised his morals hard enough to break himself, and for what? Because Edge didn't want to alienate the rabbits that held the food supply in Snowdin? Because he'd grown to like not having to scour the dust off his bones? What is he going to tell Red when they get back? What is he going to tell Papyrus?

(Please let Papyrus be better at looking after Red than Edge is looking after Sans. Let Red be in one piece and no less sane when Edge comes back to him. He didn't mean to leave his brother behind, but the fact is that he did. Hopefully Red can forgive him for it.)

And despite his guilt and his horror and his anger, there's a heavy heat in his pelvis where his magic has wanted to form since he felt Sans yield for him. Years of playing games with Red have given him certain... associations. He'd kept himself still as stone, his fingers never moved across the surface of Sans's soul, but he'd felt Sans getting slick and--

Just a physiological response. It wasn't for him. He has to keep that straight in his mind. Sans needs him to. Years of damage can't be undone in twenty minutes. It'll take months of regular healing to get Sans back to some sort of normal. Until they get back and Sans has his choice of people to help him, Edge is his only option. He's not going to take advantage of that. Bad enough that he accidentally put Sans into subspace.

(He'd gone down so beautifully.)

And it’s the least of their problems but he'd let Papyrus borrow his copy the damned relationship handbook. Not that Sans has the best history with actually _reading_ things Edge gives him, but still, it'd be easier than trying to explain subspace himself without Sans shutting down and going into horrified denial on him. It'd be their luck that Sans has subdrop at the worst possible time on top of everything else. He needs Sans to have his shit relatively together, at least enough to work on the machine and bring them home.

... home.

When had he stopped thinking of this as his home?

The front door opens and closes. He tenses and then relaxes a little when he hears the heavy stomp of Undyne's boots. He half expects Sans to jerk awake at the sound, but Sans doesn't stir. Somewhat worrying, but then healing is exhausting work for everyone involved.

(Or perhaps Sans trusts him to keep them safe.)

Carefully, Edge extricates himself from both Sans and Doomfanger. He puts Doomfanger on Sans’s lap and Doomfanger gives him a baleful look that settles into grumpy resignation. It’s not the first time Edge has deposited him on someone like a furry paperweight to keep them from wandering off. Deprived of his pillow, Sans grumbles and turns his face away. Edge climbs off the bed and gets to the door just as Undyne yanks it open.

Undyne looks at him, his clothes rumpled from being lain on, and then at Sans, clearly half-naked. Her mouth flattens into a thin line. Without bothering to lower her voice, she asks, "So you're fucking him too, huh?"

Explaining the truth that no, he just wants Sans like a desperate fool even if the only thing he’s allowed is to wrap him in a blanket and feed him would come across as more perverse than regular clone-fucking. Let her assume what she'd like. He gives her shoulder a shove. "Not in your bed. Move."

Undyne's grin sharpens. For a moment, he thinks he's going to end up having to block her spear before it ends up lodged between his ribs again, but she must be feeling sentimental because she gets out of his way instead. Edge closes the bedroom door behind him.

He’s not Red, to read people at a glance, but she looks… strained. There are new lines at the corner of her eye that weren’t there when he left her behind. It seems he’s always doing that these days, abandoning one member of his family or another.

"How bad is it really?" Edge asks.

Undyne laughs. "You think I can't hold this place together without you, lieutenant? Give me a break. I was doing it when you were still in high school."

"I meant it when I said you looked like shit," Edge says. "And Snowdin fell to the rabbits. Why didn't you replace me?"

Undyne gives an annoyed snort and turns away, headed for the kitchen. As a rule, she's not gentle with her belongings, but she picks up her teapot with something like reverence. A gift from the king. She fills it with water, sets it on the stove and cranks the heat up as far as it'll go. He's seen her go through this small ritual a thousand times, and Sans's Undyne as well. It gives him a wistful pang.

As the water heats, she says without turning, "None of them could find their ass with both hands and a map. They're useless! I might as well not bother! Besides, I knew you were coming back sooner or later. I didn't give you permission to die. You or Sans."

"Because my brother is so good at following orders," Edge says dryly.

“Ha! Yeah, I guess not.” Gruffly, she asks, "How is the runt?"

For all Red and Undyne bitch endlessly, they've killed for each other. Undyne finished the bastard who took her arm herself, still clutching her stump and bleeding out, but Red had been as methodical about tracking down everyone who'd ever worked with him and making an example out of them as Edge was. She's one of Red's people and Red is one of hers, bound together by Edge.

"The same as he ever is," Edge says. "Alive and annoying the shit out of me."

"He must be freaking out right now," Undyne says.

Edge winces. "Thank you, I'm not worried enough as it is."

Undyne opens her cabinet and grabs the little box of tea. It's one of the few things that she doesn't have to ration out. Asgore makes it himself from flowers that rage out of control in his throne room. If it bothers her that no end of dust has been scattered across those flowers over the years, she's never shown it. 

Then again, Edge has never turned down a cup himself. Sometimes, when supply lines dry up and food is scarce, the tea has been enough to fool his body into thinking he's actually eaten. 

They fall into a familiar quiet as they wait for the water to boil. It's as if eight months never passed. It's better to let her think and shake off her mood on her own after a meeting with Asgore; like Red, she gets violent if pushed.

Finally, the kettle begins to burble and hiss. Undyne grabs it off the stove before it truly whistles, too impatient to wait as always, and pours water in the cup. Clutching her own mug, leaving Edge's on the counter for the sake of propriety, she stomps to the kitchen table and sits down, hunched over it like a vulture.

They've never offered food to each other. She outranks him and they're as good as family, but it'd still be accepting her dominance over him and over Red by proxy. That doesn't mean they don't share food through a convoluted system of strategically leaving it where the other can find it. It works for them. Edge retrieves his mug and joins her at the table.

He watches her. Undyne scowls into her mug, tapping one nail against the ceramic, a grating noise.

"I take it the meeting didn't go well," he says.

It can be a delicate thing, even mentioning the tyrant in her presence without her finding some hint of treason in it. Asgore is more than her king. He took her in, one orphan among the dozens scattered throughout the underground, because he admired the fact that she’d tried to kill him. He raised her to be vicious and strong. The fact that Undyne can see as well as anyone else what Asgore is only makes her more fierce about defending him. Edge understands. Family is family.

Undyne's mouth thins. "Word's gotten out that you're back."

Unfortunate but not surprising, given the mess they'd made in Snowdin. Edge nods. "And?"

Tap, tap, tap, goes Undyne's nail on the mug. Her jaw is tight. After a moment, she says, "Asgore charged Sans with desertion."

"What?" Edge sits up sharply. "No. He’s in my collar. I’m responsible for--"

"I managed to keep you out of it," Undyne says. He hisses through his teeth and she cuts him off. "It’s what Sans would want, dumbass. There’s no reason for both of you to be screwed. But the judge up and disappears for eight months and then strolls back into town like nothing happened? He can't let that slide."

Fuck. Fuck, no, this is not good. Edge stands. "Take me to him. Let me explain--"

"He's not in an explaining mood!" Undyne says. "Sit the fuck down. If you go running in there with excuses, it just means he's gonna charge _you_ with something."

He doesn't sit down, his fingers curled into fists at his side so tight that his gloves creak under the pressure. "What's the sentence?"

Undyne slouches back in her chair. "We didn't have a judge for eight months. You know what that means? It means we couldn't tell who was innocent or guilty. So, uh. We..."

She trails off. He's never seen her hesitate before. She looks haunted.

When she doesn't continue, Edge says, already knowing, "What did he do?"

"He executed every one of them," she says. She picks up her cup and takes a deep drink. Her sudden laugh makes him jump. "Ha! I guess it simplifies things if you assume everybody's guilty."

Red was in the judgment hall a great deal. Even the rumor of treason was enough to get someone dragged by the guards before the judge, let alone the usual assault, theft, and murder.

“How many did he kill?” Edge asks. There aren’t that many of them left to begin with. Less mouths to feed, sure, but fewer people to scavenge food and to keep the underground running. They’re dwindling towards a slow extinction in the dark.

“I stopped keeping track at sixty,” Undyne says.

Asgore was already erratic and paranoid when Edge left; there’s a reason no one but Undyne and Red are allowed near him. The increase in LV would make him more likely to see conspiracy everywhere, to get lost in his own mind. Yes, it certainly would simplify things to skip the inconvenience of judgment straight to execution. After all the years Asgore has been alive, that simplicity might be too tempting to pass up

So the sentence is death, then. It figures.

"It's lucky that my brother isn't here," Edge says.

Undyne glances past him at the closed bedroom door. He doesn't like that look at all. He shifts, blocking her view, and she gives him a bitterly amused grin.

"You're right," Undyne says. "It's lucky. So tell me about the new one. Is he a judge too?”

“If you’re suggesting that we hand him over to Asgore and pretend he’s Sans, that’s stupid,” Edge says. “They don’t look anything alike. Asgore isn’t going to be fooled.” 

“Of course not!” Undyne says. “But it’s proof Sans didn’t desert on purpose and if Asgore decides to take it out on this guy instead of Sans, it’s no big loss!”

“No,” Edge says.

Undyne makes a disgusted noise. “You've known him for, what, eight months? You can’t be _that_ attached."

"Did you miss the collar?"

"No, I didn't miss it." Undyne isn't moving, watching him. He's not sure what he's going to do if she moves towards the door. "The collar looks pretty new, though. He kept fiddling with it. What'd you do, put him on him the second you got here?"

"To show that he's mine and if someone touches him, I'll take it very, very personally," Edge says. "Yes. Does it matter?"

"You always were a soft touch!" Undyne says. "Sans is bad enough, but I could at least understand it. He could keep himself alive without you hovering over him."

"Tell me, captain," Edge says. "How many times has Dr. Alphys overdosed again?"

Light flares in Undyne's eye. She snarls, "Don't fucking bring her into this. Besides, why do you think I haven't put a collar on her?"

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" Edge says. She always reacts badly to someone thinking she’s afraid.

Undyne jabs a finger at him like she wishes it was a spear. "Because I know a losing fight when I see one! And that in there is a losing fight! He’s weak, Papyrus. If it's him or Sans, the _real_ Sans, his life might as well be worth something--"

"Drop it, or we are going to have a problem," Edge says.

She stares at him for a long, long moment. He can see her thinking of what a glorious fight that would be. To find out once and for all which of them is better, it might even be worth it to her.

Then she blinks and she's just his friend again, or as close as they’re allowed to get. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop glaring. I'm not gonna turn him in unless you take the collar off or he does. Fuck knows I should, I don’t owe him anything just because he looks like Sans, but I won't. Your stupid problems are my stupid problems! You're welcome, by the way, because I'm gonna hang with you if I get caught hiding you."

"If it comes to a point where Asgore is willing to turn on _you_ , we're all fucked," Edge says.

Unexpectedly, Undyne laughs. She sounds like Red, cynical and a little unstable. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be a bitch!”

Edge frowns at her, his anger briefly derailed by first concern and then horror. "Undyne. Did he hurt--"

The look she gives him is a warning. She is clearly only going to give him one. Edge holds his hands up, a silent gesture of acquiescence. He won't forget it, but he'll hold his peace. There's nothing he can do about it anyway. If he was going to try to kill the king for fucking with his people, he’d have done it the first time he was ordered to hurt Red.

Slowly, he lowers himself back into the chair, then picks up his cup and takes a sip. It's oversteeped and a little bitter. But she made it for him with his own two hands, and he drinks it.

He trusts her word. He trusts her. As long as Sans is in his collar, he’s safe.

(The paranoid thing, the intelligent thing, would be to wait until she sleeps and slip out. To just take Sans and go. But she knows most of his hiding places. Sans is in no condition to be dragged around the back alleys of the capital, from fight to fight, and they'd have to leave behind the machine that's their only way home. Edge can't fit it in his inventory and Sans can't drag it on a shortcut with him. They have no other choice. He'll keep Sans safe. It won't come to that.)

He trusts her. He does. That hasn’t changed.

Gripping her mug a little too tightly, failing to sound casual, Undyne says, “So I guess your nerd is gonna try to fix the machine, huh?”

"I'm not leaving my brother stranded in another universe."

Her knuckles are going white. Her grin is very wide and she is watching him very closely as she asks, "You're not gonna just bail on me the second you get a chance, are you?"

"No," Edge says. He has a brief, mad thought of reaching over to pat her hunched shoulder. To reassure her. He would pull back a stump. "I'm not. I'll go back and forth."

Undyne scoffs. "Why would you go back there? What've they got that we don't?"

"Food and medicine, for one thing," Edge says. “I can bring it some of it back where it’d make a difference.”

Honestly confused, she asks, “Why the hell would you do that?”

Eight months ago, Edge would have asked the same question. The world, by way of Red, has tried too hard to beat any misguided altruism out of him. If he says anything that smacks of pity for the people he’s seen starving here, she’ll accuse him of going soft. Hell, he _has_ gone soft, clearly, but he’s never been good at turning his back on a problem. He has very simple, pragmatic reasons for it. It’s fine.

“It solves the supply line issues with the rabbits,” he says. “If there’s another source of food coming in and we sell it for cheaper, it undercuts their hold on Snowdin. If that works, we can try it to manage some of the gangs in the city. Besides, people who’ve been fed are less likely to riot.”

Maybe if somebody had done that when Edge was a child, Red never would have gotten on his knees for some sweaty-handed asshole in an alley for food Edge was too useless to get on his own. He can’t undo that, but he can try to be sure it doesn’t happen again to anyone else.

Undyne grimaces. “You want to go into the grocer business or something? That’d be a waste after I spent all that time training you.”

All of a week, in other words. Most of Edge’s training came from survival on the streets of the capital, not Undyne trying her hardest to kill him. He decides not to mention it. “Obviously someone else will handle the actual shopkeeping. I know it’s hard for you when someone’s not getting punched in the face, but try to keep up.”

She snorts, unoffended. “And where are you gonna get the food, smart guy? Are you just rolling in it over there?”

"You'd be surprised by what humans are willing to pay for a little gold," Edge says. "The currency exchange rate is amazing. I’ve got a stockpile."

It seems simpler than explaining that many of the monsters Edge has met up there will send the food they can spare out of simple discomfort with the idea of people going hungry. The queen will probably insist on baking, particularly once she realizes there are children to be fed.

The queen and the king will want to come here. They'll want to attempt diplomacy. And the tyrant--

Undyne cocks her head to one side. There's a speculative glitter in her eye. “There’s that much food just lying around for somebody to take it?”

Undyne is one of the more sane, principled monsters left underground. But already, she is thinking of how easily she could put her boot on that universe's throat and take what they have. She is her father's daughter. Perhaps it would stop her if he told her that the few monsters left alive down here, scrawny and underfed and desperate in their hopelessness, would be crushed. There are too few of them, for all that they're vicious, and the humans would not react kindly to being invaded. The invasion would be put down quickly, mercifully, but a great deal of people of varying degrees of innocence would die.

What he says is, "Dr. Alphys is there."

It's as if he slapped her in the face. She wakes up out of her daydreams of warfare. "What?"

"Dr. Alphys. A version of her, anyway," Edge says. "I think she would like you. But that seems to be a universal constant. You and she are getting married in the winter."

Undyne stares at him, looking poleaxed. She echoes, softer than he’s ever heard her, "Married?"

"Yes. You're so happy together it's honestly a little nauseating." Edge picks up his cup and takes a smug sip. "How's that letter going, by the way?"

“Go fuck yourself is how,” Undyne grumbles. She slams her mug down onto the table. Mugs don’t get the consideration she gives the teapot. “God, what kind of pussy am I over there? She’s running around giving me a bad name, kissing babies and marrying nerds and hugging kittens or whatever. When you get the machine running, I’m gonna go kick her pansy ass.”

A terrifying thought. The two Undynes will either become besties or end up killing each other. Probably the latter, considering their different definitions of protecting the kingdom. He’s not sure who he’d lay his money on, but the neighborhood might not be left standing when they’re done. Fuck knows how they’ll decide who gets the nickname. Edge tells her, “If you’re planning to punch yourself in the face, you could just save the time and do it right now.”

“I’d rather punch _you_!” Her sudden jack-o-lantern grin is his only warning before she flips the table. On him, of course, hot tea and all. It makes an unholy amount of noise. So much for Sans sleeping. Then she dives across the table, going for his throat. In a friendly way. Probably.

There is a satisfaction in violence that no one from Sans’s world, even that version of Undyne, understands. It’s simple, the constant seething tension of expecting attack and the relief when the waiting is over, one way or another. There is no room for regret or for guilt or for fear. There is only losing or winning, and survival is the sweetest victory of all. So they fight, he and Undyne. They fight like they used to, no weapons, no holds barred, the way they can’t fight with anyone else.

At one point, Edge glances over to see that the bedroom door has opened a crack. It’s hard to concentrate with Undyne doing her damnedest to pull his head off his neck, but he sees Sans’s expression go from spooked to amused as he realizes they’re not actually trying to kill each other. The door closes and Sans leaves them to it.

Then Undyne rabbit-punches him in the side of the head, making his skull ring, and barks in his ear, “Am I boring you, lieutenant?”

He slams his head back into her face. The back of his head is wet with blood but she cackles with genuine delight as he tries to get free of her. She always did appreciate a good headbutt.

They come to a draw. They always do. Afterwards, Undyne sitting on the counter as Edge heals her face with what little energy he has left after Sans, she kicks him and says, “Hey.”

“What?” Edge grumbles. The fact that she missed didn’t mean he’s forgotten that she tried to kick him in the pelvis. Repeatedly.

“If you tell anybody I said this, I’ll kill you,” Undyne says, “but I’m glad you’re back, you big nerd.”

He looks at her, battered and exhausted and looking so much older than he left, and all he can do is tell her the merciful, traitorous lie of, “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: discussion of food insecurity, the implication of Underfell!Asgore hurting Underfell!Undyne (who is basically his daughter) offscreen, reference to Edge being ordered by Underfell!Asgore to hurt Red, reference to Underfell!Alphys's drug overdoses, reference to Red having sex for food in the past, general Underfell bullshit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings in the endnotes

Sans doesn't use doors except for knock knock jokes. It's a trait of his brother's that Papyrus resigned himself to years ago. Sans just turns up places, a source of incidental music and bad jokes and low-level aggravation that's comforting in its very consistency. There hasn't been a day in their lives that Sans didn't come home, even when home just meant whatever alley they were sleeping in that night. Sans is supposed to be here.

Sans doesn't use doors but Papyrus finds himself tensing hopefully every time the front door opens anyway, coming to attention like that wretched canine when someone is about to throw a stick. Sans is most definitely going to hear about it when he comes back, all the door-related depths he's forced Papyrus to sink to.

The door swings open and it's only Undyne. He is, of course, glad to see her, and he does not deflate even a little. He smiles harder to prove it. "Hello! Did you find anything?"

Undyne looks tired. He doesn't think she's gone home since this started... two days ago now? It seems like a lot of time. It doesn't seem like enough. "Nothing new. Sorry, Paps."

"It's fine," Papyrus says. His hands try to creep together so he can wring them. He makes them stop. He did that so much the first night that the bones ached and it only makes everyone look pinched and sympathetic. (Except Red, who is a whole different concern.) "Do you want a casserole? That seems to be what people make when these things happen, for some reason. It's like they think Sans took the stove with him."

Undyne demonstrates the pinched and sympathetic look exactly. He's really beginning to hate that look. "Nah, thanks. I just came over to see how you were holding up. Y'know." Her eye flits down to the living room floor. "Both of you."

There is a very loud clang from the cellar followed by the sound of a wrench hitting the wall. No cursing, though. It was better when Red was cursing.

"We're fine!" Papyrus says brightly.

Undyne looks understandably skeptical. The last time she'd tried to convince Red to leave the machine alone long enough to eat or sleep, he'd pulled a blaster on her. He hadn't _used_ it but he just sat there staring at her, dead-eyed, until Papyrus herded her out of the cellar. Until Edge and Sans come back, any fineness on Red’s part will be a matter of relativity.

Dragging a hand down her face, Undyne sighs. "I guess it's better than not knowing where he is or what he’s doing. And he’s not shaking people down for information. That’s my job!" Her grin fades as she looks at Papyrus. Clearly he's not smiling hard enough. "How're you holding up?"

"People keep asking me that," Papyrus says. He can't quite keep the edge out of his voice. He's not the kind of person who gets tired but if he was, listening to everyone be sympathetic at him would do it. It's been a lot of people. Sans knows everybody, even if they don't really know Sans, and it didn't take very long for word to get around. Hence the casseroles. Hence the phone calls, which are straining his policy of picking up by the second ring. Hence Lady Toriel insisting that he stay home from work even if he'd really like to be doing things that don't involve waiting. Things that are actually helpful.

"Well, yeah, you big dork," Undyne says. "People are worried."

"People are acting like Sans is already dead," Papyrus says.

Undyne winces. He probably should have put that differently and done a polite waltz around the truth. Sans would have. Sans is good at that. But he is-- not tired. He is

(remembering)

(what is he remembering)

( _You should know he’ll be dead before he’s twenty._ ) 

( _Stop crying. I'm only telling you the truth._ )

( _Without my help, he won't make it another year. You need me. Now help me get him on the table._ )

(the doctor was)

"Paps?"

Undyne's voice breaks through like a brick through a window. Papyrus looks at her. His head hurts, suddenly. She looks worried and a little angry, like she's going to punch something in the face for him once she figures out what exactly needs punching.

"You kinda zoned out there," Undyne says. "You okay?"

"I was thinking," Papyrus says. "Very important thoughts. Only I can't exactly remember about what?"

If anything, she looks more worried. She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, which is a little painful but nice at the same time. "Maybe you oughta try to get some sleep."

"It'll hardly help if I start picking up bad habits," Papyrus says.

"Look, I can keep an eye on Red for a couple hours if you--”

Her phone rings. The ringtone is alarmingly bombastic entrance music for a professional wrestler of some sort or another. Undyne grabs it on the second ring, demonstrating excellent phone etiquette, and demands of the person on the other end, "Yeah?"

The sound is muffled but Papyrus can hear excited barking. Undyne's eye lights up with renewed energy and she grins like a shark. "Nice work. I'll be right there."

When Undyne hangs up, she says, "Hey, some human kid just showed up at the embassy. He’s all freaked out and apparently he's got information about Sans and Edge, so I'm gonna go check it out. I'll call you later, okay?"

"You don't have to," Papyrus says, desperately wanting her to.

Undyne scoffs. "Yeah, I do! You're my bestie!"

"I thought the human was your bestie?"

"You can have two besties! You just gotta put your back into it!" Undyne strides for the door, gets to it, and pauses with her hand on the knob. Looking back over her shoulder, her expression serious, she says, "Hey, Paps?"

"I'm still standing right here," Papyrus says. "We were just talking? You don't have to get my attention again."

"Sans is alive," Undyne says with absolute, unshakable faith. "And fuck everybody who doesn't think so. We’re gonna find them."

Papyrus doesn't fuck anybody but he gets the general sentiment. This is why she's one of his very favorite people. It's a little easier to smile. "I know. I believe in you! Us. Them."

Undyne grins and slams the door behind her as she goes.

The house settles into quiet. A quieter quiet than usual, as if the house itself knows Sans is supposed to be here. The emptiness rings in his skull.

There is a whiskery poke at the back of his tibia. He looks down and the terrible dog peers expectantly up at him. Its black shoe-button eyes don't betray the machinations of its devious mind.

"I suppose," Papyrus sighs. "Just this once, since you're clearly distraught."

He picks the dog up in his arms and it lays there, heavy and warm and completely unhelpful. Its tail thumps into him as it swishes contentedly.

"He'll be fine," he reassures the dog. “Even if Sans wasn’t good at getting out of things, Edgy Me is a me and perfectly suited to looking after a Sans. They’ll be okay.”

The dog lays its head on his shoulder and sighs heavily. He can tell by now when someone he’s holding is about to fall asleep. He sits down on the couch, watching the door. He waits. He tries to believe.

***

Later, when it is dark, there is another knock. Again the painful lurch of hope and again the disappointment when Papyrus opens the door to find no wayward brother. Instead there's Grillby, casting his own flickering light across the porch.

Before Papyrus can say anything, Grillby pushes a couple bags at him. One smells like grease, a familiar smell that unexpectedly makes Papyrus's throat feel tight with homesick tears. Of all the things to remind him of Sans.

"... salad," Grillby says, pointing at one bag. He almost can't be heard over the sound of leaves being dragged across the porch by an errant wind. It's going to rain tonight but here Grillby is, risking being out in it. He points at the second bag. "... for Red."

"Thank you?" Papyrus says, nonplussed.

Grillby nods. Then he turns around and heads back to his sensible car without another word. Grillby never talks much. He provides a gentle, restful silence. It's a relief not to have to figure out what to say. 

(Not that he isn't grateful for people trying! It's just... people are complicated and act like they have a handbook for how to social that Papyrus never got a copy of. Especially the chapter on how to deal with well-meaning visitors with pitying expressions.)

"Thank you!" Papyrus says again, calling after him. "But you really shouldn't be out when it's going to rain! Er, be careful?"

Grillby raises a hand without turning, gets in his car and drives away, leaving Papyrus with two bags of food that aren't casseroles. Horrifyingly greasy food that Red might actually enjoy eating.

He closes the front door and heads for the cellar.

It was a very short period of time between when Red called him in a panic because Edge never came back to the embassy after his break to when Red seized on the idea that Edge and Sans had been dragged back to where Edge and Red came from. "Of course they were," had been Red's exact words, spit out shockingly bitter. "That's just how our shitty lives work."

Sheer dramatic irony isn't the most sound logic, but it's better than some of the conclusions Red could have come to. If Red thought Edge was dead... well, that's better left unconsidered.

So Red taken a shortcut to Sans's shed back in Snowdin, grabbed the machine that Sans had been tinkering hopelessly with for six years now and all the notes Sans left behind, and dragged it to the basement. He'd looked Papyrus in the eyes and said, dead serious, "I'm going to fix this."

And he hasn't moved from the machine since. He hasn't slept or showered, which is increasingly unfortunate. Unlike Undyne, he allows Papyrus to fuss at him him without pulling a blaster, thankfully. When Papyrus nudges him to eat, he does it mechanically, without any of his usual inexplicable amusement at someone trying to feed him. Papyrus is trying to look after him, but he doesn't make it easy. Hopefully Edge is having more luck with Sans.

(Honestly, Papyrus doubts it. He knows his brother too well.)

When he peers down into the cellar, he finds Red looking dully at the machine, two fingers hooked in his own collar like Edge would do it. When Sans wakes out of nightmares, he looks like that, all black eyes and rictus grin. Red is having a wide awake nightmare.

On his way down, Papyrus makes sure to tred harder on the third step, the one that creaks. At the noise, Red blinks and looks up at him. His grin is rusty and brief. He picks up the notes and pretends to read them again as if he wasn't just staring numbly into space.

"I brought you terrible garbage food," Papyrus announces. "Appreciate my sacrifices."

"I appreciate the fuck out of your sacrifices, Paps," Red says absently. He sniffs, then actually looks up at the bag with interest. "Grillby's?"

With a grimace, Papyrus hands it over. "Yes. Hence the sacrifice."

Red doesn't so much open the bag as eviscerate it, pulling the burger out of its wrapping and taking a bite. His second bite is bigger, as if it's just now occurring to him how hungry he is. Sans would get like that when he really focused. He'd have starved in nerdy grad school if Papyrus wasn't such an attentive and responsible brother.

Strange. Papyrus never realized how many of his memories and idle thoughts involve his brother until now, when every time it's like touching a bruise. He remembers over and over again that Sans isn't here and something is wrong. He pushes the feeling away, replacing it in its box to be dealt with later. Much later. There's no use crying about it.

( _Stop crying. I'm only telling you the truth._ )

Red eats like a rabid wolverine. It's both impressive and disgusting. Papyrus averts his eyes. Sans's notes are scattered around the machine, a haphazard stack of them sitting on top of it. On top of that pile, there is a familiar photograph.

He picks it up, a smile tugging at his mouth. It's from the day the barrier was broken. The human had convinced a froggit to take the photo. It's him and Sans, Toriel and the king, Alphys and Undyne, the human in the middle smiling their small, genuine smile. The sunset is behind them. Everyone looks happy. He has a copy of the photo framed in his room, but he didn't know Sans had kept one. What a softie.

He turns the photo over. The human had solemnly handed him his copy with a smiley face drawn on the back. Instead there's the familiar mess of Sans's impenetrable shorthand. Symbols cover every centimeter, one corner to the other, scribbled in a cramped hand to try to make all the words fit.

Up in the top corner, underlined twice, are the words _don't trust the kid._

Papyrus stares at it. Then he reads on. It makes no sense. It's like a note someone would leave an errant housemate on the fridge, reminding them to pick up milk, but at the same time, it's a note to Sans? From Sans? Telling him not to trust Frisk even though this picture was taken after Frisk became a very good friend? Even for his brother, it's worryingly strange.

(Before Sans left, he'd admitted something was wrong. Something that started when the human came.)

_human kid is coming. can reset time. photo goes between resets. 14th total reset, ??? partial. gaster? idk why they can. idk wtf they're trying to do. no one remembers. no point in telling. no point. deja vu, nightmares, feels like you know the kid. watch them. follow them. they killed_

The photo slips from between Papyrus's numb fingers. It drifts to the floor but the words are burned into his head.

_they killed everyone_

The pen pressing hard into the paper, digging grooves: _they killed papyrus_

Papyrus does not feel very dead. Then again, how would he know? He doesn’t have any basis for comparison.

Sans has a terrible sense of humor. Absolutely awful. But there are jokes he wouldn't make, and this is one of them. Which means either his brother is very, very sick or…

(The human slotted so easily into his heart. The first time they met, they’d looked at him and smiled like they were already old friends. He remembers Sans’s nonsense riddle: _do you know who you know?_ )

There were more words to read. Slowly, as if the photo is going to bite him, he picks it back up. Then he looks at Red. It feels like he's looking through a television monitor, everything crystalline and unreal. Changed.

One could say it was reset.

"Cherry?" he says.

Red glances up at him, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Honestly. Sanses. There were napkins in the bag. When he sees Papyrus's expression, he seems to focus for the first time in days. "What?"

Papyrus holds up the photo, the notes facing Red. His hand may be shaking. He attempts to smile encouragingly. "What is this?"

“What d’you mean? It’s just the--” Realization makes Red stiffen. His voice goes flat. "He didn't tell you."

"Sans doesn't tell anyone anything," Papyrus says. They are such bitter words. “Tell me what?”

"That fucking--" Red cuts himself off, exhaling like he has many more things to call Sans at the moment but doesn’t want to do it in front of Papyrus. He glances at the machine, the one he's clung to for days. Papyrus can see the angry conflict on his face and he knows which one will win.

"It's fine," Papyrus says tiredly. Red shouldn't have to stop just because Sans is... Sans. "I'll just read the--"

Abruptly, Red says, "Give it here. A lot of stuff was probably different from our resets, but I can figure out his notes and try to fill in the gaps."

"But you're--?"

"I’m making stupid mistakes. I need a break before I fuck up and have to redo all the wiring anyway. Besides, even once I get the machine up and running, Sans has gotta get the other one fixed before we can bring 'em back. I don't know if he's even--" 

Pointedly, Papyrus says, "I wouldn't worry about that. Sans is more than capable of fixing the machine. It's basic honesty he has trouble with."

Red eyes him, a worried furrow between his brows, then glances away. "It's gonna be a quick and dirty explanation. Twenty minutes probably won't matter." A shaky laugh. "I dunno if any of this does or if I'm just trying to keep myself from going fucking crazy."

“I won’t let you go crazy,” Papyrus says.

Red snorts. His grin is mean, sharper than Sans’s has ever been. He’s never directed that look at Papyrus before. “Yeah? You think you can stop me?”

Papyrus meets his eyes, smiles and says with absolute honesty, “Yes.”

Red studies him. Eventually, one corner of his mouth crooks up and he settles back. “Heh. Maybe. Siddown.”

Papyrus sits down on the ground. From here, the machine seems to tower over both of them. He hands Red the photo. "What’s a Gaster?”

“Guess he never told you that either.” Red turns the photo over, squinting at Sans’s handwriting. “Figures. Welp, I might as well put all the cards on the table. You're a grown up. You deserve to know."

"Yes," Papyrus says, more grateful than words can say. "Yes, I do."

Red tells him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: flashback to past verbal abuse from Gaster
> 
> ETA: Also, Undyne's ringtone is this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJjZM5zFGuA . This is clearly the most important author's note ever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in endnotes

"Holy shit," Sans says. "I think I got it."

It seems like tempting fate, seeing as irony is a bitch, but the machine doesn't immediately explode. It sits there, a hulk of metal and wires, and it waits to be turned on.

From behind him, where he’s has been perched at the kitchen table supervising for most of the last three days (when he’s not pacing like a caged animal), Edge says with sudden alertness, "It's finished?"

Without his mind occupied by the machine, Sans’s body is registering about twenty complaints. He’s starving, his hands are cramped and his soul hurts like a really bad burn, but he laughs. When he sits up straight, his spine pops in several places. "I won't know until I turn it on, but... yeah. I think it'll work."

Six years. Six years of frustration and dead ends, and all it took was three days with Red's notes. He can't even be annoyed by the fact that Red's apparently much, much smarter than him. They could be getting home. This could be it. When they get back, he owes Red so many blowjobs.

(If Red doesn’t just kill him as soon as he figures out this whole clusterfuck was Sans’s fault in the first place, anyway. Kind of a big if.)

Edge exhales. When Sans turns back to look at him, Edge is staring at the machine with such raw relief that it hurts to look at. Then Edge gives him one of those small, rare smiles and reaches out a tentative hand to scritch his coronal suture. "Good work."

Sans would shake his head but it might make the scritching stop. This thing where Edge is starting to give him small, affectionate touches is pretty okay, even if it’s probably opening the door and confusing everything and might bite him in the ass in the long term. That’s a problem for future Sans, who’ll hopefully not be trying desperately to keep his shit together until he gets home. "It's all Red. I've never been able to get the entropy engine reconnected, but Red came up with this workaround that was fucking brilliant and he did it with scrap metal. I dunno how he missed the thing with the photon conversion array but that was an easy fix. All I had to do was--"

"Perhaps we can have this discussion after we know for sure that it works," Edge says.

Right. Fuck, he's punchy. Edge made him stop and nap twice but his dreams were restless and he kept getting jerked awake by pain. It's better than his soul being numb but the pain's wearing him thin by the simple fact that it doesn't _stop_.

It's fine. It’s not the worst pain he’s ever been in. It’s not even in the top five. Once they get home, he can sleep. Maybe he'll even take the painkillers that Edge quietly offered. But he's gotta get them there first.

Sans unplugged the machine before he opened it up. No point risking that the machine would unexpectedly start and electrocute him. He gets up and replaces the plug, then goes to the controls and starts pressing buttons. It's been years since he last did this but he remembers the sequence like it was burnt into the inside of his skull.

His fingers pause over the last button. He doesn't believe in any gods or the Angel, but he thinks to whatever might be listening, _please. Just give me this one, okay?_

As if in answer, the door flings open and collides with the wall. His head whips around, expecting who fucking knows what, but it's only Unundyne (a mental nickname he gave her out of sheer psychological self defense) looking like she’s tense enough to snap. When she sees him, her eye narrows, but it's Edge that she asks, "Did he fix it?"

Sans pushes the button. With a rising whir, the machine wakes up as smoothly as if it was never broken. The lights go on one by one until finally the monitor lights up. There is a string of > scrolling down the screen, a flash of gibberish text, and then pops up one of the most beautiful words in the world: _Searching..._

It would have been more beautiful if it said _Connection found!_ but Sans'll take it.

Sans turns around and winks at Unundyne. "Yep. It's up and running."

Her scowl deepens. She's pretty much made that face at Sans for the last three days, though. She hates him for being a liability to Edge. She hates him for not being Red. Sans doesn't take it personally. Crossing her arms, she says, "It isn't doing anything. Where's the big shiny hole between universes?"

"There’ll be plenty of big shiny holes once the machine's running on the other side," Sans says. "Red--"

Stupid mistake. Unundyne snarls, "That's not his fucking name!"

"Undyne," Edge says evenly. She redirects her glare to him.

"Sorry," Sans says. "He might need another couple hours. Maybe he stopped to take a nap or something. He'll fix it. Just give it time."

Unundyne stares at him for a long moment. She's angry about something, but he's not sure that it's him. Then she growls, "Fine! I guess you're not totally fucking useless."

"Just mostly," Sans agrees.

She turns so sharply that her hair swings behind her and goes to the stove with its teapot. She's been making enough tea over the last few days to put even Asgore to shame. As coping strategies go, it could be worse. 

Sans glances at Edge and signs, _she's your buddy, you gonna deal with this?_

Edge grimaces and signs back, _eat something._ Somehow Sans manages not to roll his eyes as he pulls a food bar out of his inventory. Edge has been careful not to offer him food again after the post-soul whatever it was, but he keeps leaving it by Sans and staring pointedly until Sans gets the hint and stashes it away for later. It's a convoluted system but hey, if it makes Edge happy, fine.

As he eats, Sans turns away to stare at the machine. Better not to look like he's listening to their conversation. Unundyne gets pissy about that and she's plenty pissy as it is.

Edge says to Unundyne, "Did something happen?"

Unundyne slams a kitchen cabinet. "The bunnies cut off trade. People are gonna starve. I need you out there doing your fucking job.”

“Soon,” Edge says. “Now that the machine’s working, he’ll go back where it’s safe and we’ll put things in order.”

Unundyne grunts.

After a moment, Edge says, a little quieter, “With Asgore looking for Sans, I can’t risk somebody finding him. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Undyne says tiredly. “Whatever.”

The right thing to do would be to say that no, it’s fine, Edge should go help get Snowdin into line before people start dying. But that’d also be the stupid thing, considering that a) Edge wouldn’t go and b) the idea of being left alone here makes Sans’s soul seize with helpless terror. He keeps his mouth shut.

Eventually, the tea kettle starts to make those burbling pre-whistle noises and he hears the click of her turning the stove off. She pours a cup. A second. A third?

Sans turns his head and Unundyne is already stomping away with her own cup clutched in her fingers. There are two cups left on the counter. When he glances at her, she meets his eyes and demands, “What the fuck are you staring at? Drink it or don’t, I don’t give a shit.”

Amazing. An olive branch with barbed wire wrapped around it. Sans waits for Edge to fetch his cup before he gets the third. The smell of the tea is achingly familiar, dragging him back to all the times Asgore ever pressed a cup on him after judging, a lonely old man who just wanted some company.

There are only two chairs at the kitchen table and Sans isn’t going to push his luck that far. He leans against the counter. Staring at the machine won’t make it more likely to connect and it’d be hard to miss a wormhole opening up, but he keeps one eye on it anyway, which is why he doesn’t catch the expression on Unundyne’s face until Edge has already brought the cup to his mouth.

Determination. Anger. Worry. Guilt.

Sans stiffens. “Don’t--”

Too late. Edge tastes the tea and freezes in place, his eyes widening in horror. He spits the tea on the carpet, vaulting to his feet fast enough that the chair falls over backwards. Unundyne doesn’t move, even when he forms an attack. The edges of the attack are a little fuzzy. Unfocused. Unraveling. Unundyne lets it hit her and most of it scatters in a harmless lightshow. Sans stays where he is, frozen like a rabbit in the headlights.

“Knock it off!” Unundyne says, swatting aside the next bone Edge throws at her. “It’s not poison, it’s just Alphys’s meds. You’ll sleep it off.”

Edge stares at her as if he’s never seen her before, then barks at Sans, “Run!”

He doesn’t know if he’s healed enough to get his shortcuts back. It might end with the two of them trapped in the void again with Gaster. If he runs, he’s leaving Edge behind here with the person who fucking drugged him. He’s leaving behind the way home. He wavers.

Whatever Unundyne gave Edge, it was strong and it’s working fast. He staggers forward, grabbing the table to stay upright, putting between Unundyne and Sans, and snarls, “I said get out of here!”

Sans drops the cup and bolts.

He isn’t a runner, at least not in the literal sense, but he tries. He even gets as far as the door, jerks it open, and almost runs face first into RG 02. RG 02 takes up most of the doorway, a wall of silence and dulled black armor. RG 02 reaches down for him and Sans slams the door, hitting him in the face and probably doing all of one point of damage.

There’s a thump from behind him. Sans whips around and finds Unundyne holding Edge up; she didn’t let him hit the floor, her arms tight around him even as he tries to clumsily fight her off.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Unundyne says. “The king figured out I was the one hiding you! He told me it’s you or not-Sans and I picked you.”

“Fuck you,” Edge says, his voice thick and blurry. Through eyes that he’s clearly fighting to focus, he catches sight of Sans by the door, still here. He struggles harder, a last ditch burst of desperation. He even almost gets Unundyne to drop him, for all the good that’d do. Then his head drops hard against Unundyne’s shoulder and he pleads, “Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” Unundyne says again, almost too quiet to hear. Sans believes her. Even when Edge finally goes limp, she holds on for another long moment before she gently lowers him to the floor. Then she raises her eye to Sans.

The machine is still searching. Every door is still closed. He doesn’t move, carefully not looking at the window.

“You were just gonna fucking leave him, huh?” Unundyne says, moving towards him. She scoffs. “God, you really aren’t Sans, are you.”

Sans watches her. She’s looking for a good reason not to regret what she’s done. He takes a deep, shaky breath, pressing himself back against the door, and whimpers, “Please don’t hurt me.”

Her eye narrows with contempt. “Oh, c’mon, you don’t have to be a little baby about it--”

As she gets within reach, he slides down the door, cringing and holding his hands up like it’s going to ward her off. Disgusted, she bends down to grab him, and he tries to slam a bone into her good eye. 

He’s not really expecting to connect, let alone do damage, but it’s enough to make her yank back, taking her off balance for a few precious seconds. He darts towards the window. No time to open it. He’s gonna have to go through it. It might kill him but once he’s outside, if he can get to the water, he doesn’t need to breathe so he can go under and stay there until--

Unundyne shoves him face first into the wall beside the window. The impact stuns him for a precious second, hard enough to make him wonder if he’s dying, and she grabs him by the wrist and slaps a metal cuff around it with a little snap. His DEF and ATK drop to zero. Neat trick.

Over the ringing in his skull, he hears the door open. RG 01 says, “Captain?”

“Close the fucking door!” Unundyne snaps.

The fucking door closes. Sans leans his forehead against the cool wall, eyes squeezed shut. The raggedness of his breathing is no act this time. Roughly, Unundyne turns him around and grabs his other wrist. He tries to jerk away and she bounces him off the wall, another bone-jarring impact that takes him down 0.3 HP. She’s not Papyrus or Edge. He can let her cuff him and have a chance to get loose before Asgore kills him or he can maybe die right here the next time she gets frustrated.

He lets her cuff his hands in front of him. She’s smart; she does it too tight to slip through unless he dislocates both thumbs. Then she sits back on her haunches to stare at him. There’s a new grudging respect in her eye.

“That was some sneaky bullshit,” Unundyne says.

“Was I supposed to stand there and take it?” Sans asks with acid sweetness.

“You were supposed to drink the tea, dumbass,” Unundyne says. Her gaze falls on the collar and she points at it. “Take it off.”

To Sans’s surprise, what reflexively comes out of his mouth is, “No.”

The collar and everything it represents makes him uneasy. But…

“The king’s probably gonna kill you,” Unundyne says bluntly. “But Papyrus might still have a shot unless Asgore sees that fucking collar and decides he’s just as guilty as you are. If you give a shit about him, take it off.”

Sans glances at Edge, sprawled out on the floor. Unconscious but still breathing. More vulnerable than Sans has ever seen him. Haltingly, he brings his hands up and undoes the collar. It’s warm beneath his fingers, warmer than he is. When it falls away, it takes its magic with it. That protective intent, wrapped around him for the last three days like a blanket, dulling the edges of his fear and his pain, is gone. The world is sharp and merciless. He’s alone.

Unundyne’s mouth is a thin line. She looks like she wishes he’d been a selfish bastard. The worst part is how much of Undyne he can see in her. She’s not heartless. She has that same sense of honor, even if it’s been twisted up and used against her. She’s a decent person underneath, like the dogs. Like Edge.

He thinks of Undyne, lying to Papyrus about “royal guard training” when she’d never let him in, trying to protect him from himself even if Papyrus didn’t really need it. He should have seen this coming.

“He’s not gonna get over this, y’know,” Sans says.

Unundyne doesn’t quite wince. Her shoulders go stiff. “So fucking what? Better pissed at me than dead!”

“Yeah,” Sans says. “That’s real noble of you, screwing him over for his own good. The stuff you do for family, huh?”

“Shut your fucking mouth before I gag you,” Unundyne says. His words drew blood and they both know it. 

Jerkily, she reaches into her inventory and pulls out a coarse black bag. He knows where it’s going even before she jams it over his head, blotting out the world. The inside of the bag reeks of blood and fear sweat, his own breath huffing humidly back in his face. Already he doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough air. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him off the wall, marching him towards the door. When he tries to dig his heels in, she drags him.

The door opens and then there’s marshy, sodden ground beneath his feet, the smell of long-standing water in the air. He hears RG 01 say, “Captain!” followed by a clang like his salute was a little too enthusiastic and he hit himself in the helm.

“I’ve got him,” Unundyne says. “If he tries anything, kill him.”

“But, like, the king wanted him alive and stuff--”

“The king isn’t your problem right now, soldier!” Unundyne says. “You know who’s your problem?”

“... uh, you, captain.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Unundyne says. She gives Sans a push. “Move!”

He moves. He listens intently for anything, _anything_ , that might give him ideas for how to get out of this, but there’s only the squelch of the ground beneath his feet and Unundyne grinding her teeth. Her grip on his arm doesn’t yield even for the fraction of a second he’d need to jerk free.

Eventually, he hears running water and soft thunking. A boat against a dock. A moment later, Unundyne pulls him onto it and the boat is bobbing under Sans’s feet. The motion is a little sickening.

“Tra la la,” the River Person says. They sound the same as the one Sans knows, their voice a gently mocking sing-song. “Care for a ride?”

“The castle,” Unundyne says, and with a gentle splash, the boat begins to move.

“Tra la la,” the River Person says after a long minute of silence. “What did he do, the man who speaks in hands?”

Sans stiffens. Unundyne’s grip on him tightens in warning.

“Like, I hate it when they’re creepy,” RG 01 mutters. RG 02 gives a grunt of agreement.

“He doesn’t see everything,” the River Person says. “He’s still just a man. Don’t forget.”

“All right, that’s enough bullshit,” Unundyne says sharply, but the River Person seems to be done anyway. They begin to hum instead, a cheery little tune.

_He doesn’t see everything._

It’s crazy to attempt a shortcut. If Gaster catches him in the void, he’s fucked. Being executed by Asgore would be relatively clean compared to what Gaster would do. And he can’t try it now, with Unundyne’s hand clamped on his shoulder and magic-suppressing cuffs around his wrists.

Still. It’s not like he’s drowning in options. If it worked, he could go back to the machine. He could take it and Edge somewhere safe. If the little bit of healing Edge did fixed his shortcuts, if he does it fast enough--

The boat hits the dock and comes to a stop. The sound of water dripping echoes hollowly off the walls. Unundyne gives him a hard push back onto solid ground. When he stumbles, tripping over his own feet, she just picks him up by the back of the jacket like a naughty puppy and keeps moving with him dangling in front of her. He goes as limp and heavy as he can but considering that he’s seen Undyne benchlift a car, he doesn’t have much hope it’ll help. A few moments later, he hears the elevator door close behind them. He’s not sure exactly where she’s bringing him for his execution but it’s not far now. He can feel his exits closing off one by one.

Think. _Think_.

He turns his head towards one of the guards. He thinks it’s RG 02. “Six months without a judge, huh? That’s rough. At least you used to be able to pretend the people he was killing deserved it.”

Unundyne says, “Ignore him. He’s just trying to fuck with your head.”

“There aren’t that many of you left,” Sans says. “When he runs out of people to accuse of treason, he’ll start looking at you. Better tell RG 01 you love him while you’ve still got time.”

“Uh, what?” RG 01 says, his voice a little higher than normal. “Bro--”

They’re distracted. But before Sans can try anything, Unundyne gives him a hard shake that jars his soul in his chest. The pain whites out his vision for a second, stealing the opportunity away from him.

The elevator doors slide open. He hears the wind. They’re at the top of the castle, near Asgore’s home.

“Stay here and guard the elevators,” Unundyne says. “I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if I hear you’ve been telling anyone about this, do I?”

“No, captain,” they chorus, almost in sync.

“Good,” she says. “Now go get your shit together!”

“Yes, captain,” they say. As Unundyne starts stomping away, Sans hears RG 01 say nervously, “Ha ha, like, what a joke, right?”

RG 02 says nothing.

“I oughta throw you off the roof, you little asshole,” Unundyne snarls under her breath.

“Wow, you’re attached to them, huh?” Sans says. “You might even feel a little bad about it when Asgore tells you to hand _them_ over to be executed. I mean, it won’t stop you, but hey--”

“Shut up,” Unundyne says again, a thread of desperation in the anger.

“What’re you going to do, kill me?” Sans asks. “You know I’m right. So where does it stop? How many people are you gonna kill for him?”

There’s no answer. Instead, Unundyne tosses him to the ground with another sickening burst of pain. He lands on his knees on something softer than stone. The wind is gone. He’s inside again. Her hand clamps on the back of his neck, shoving his head down until his spine is at an uncomfortable angle.

Heavy footfalls come closer, muffled by the… carpet?

"Sir," Unundyne says. "I brought him like you asked."

The air is heavy with the scent of unwashed fur and golden flowers. Sans can almost feel the king's shadow fall on him. He's trembling, a soft rattle of bones he can't stop.

The bag is jerked off his head in one motion. There is warm light cast from a fireplace, surreally cozy. He's in Asgore's home in the Underground, almost unchanged from the one Sans knows aside from the faded blood stains on the carpet. He stares at the king's robes, so heavy with dust that the purple has gone to gray.

A hand closes around his jaw and forces him to look up, claws pricking at him, and Sans looks into the face of the king of all monsters. 

What looks back at him is an old man, fur patchy and face thin beneath his matted beard. Asgore's eyes are such a deep red they're almost black. For a moment, Sans doesn't see anyone at home behind those eyes... but no, beneath the LV, someone is there, watching him from a long way away.

 _Murderer,_ the judge hisses in his head.

LV 18. Asgore is LV 18. Sans's king and friend was breaking underneath the guilt of killing the human children, and with all the dust this Asgore has scattered, his mind has completely snapped.

Asgore checks him. His magic is heavy and wrong, like a smothering hand. Sans wants to turn his face away but Asgore could crush his jaw like an empty eggshell. Asgore tilts his head thoughtfully, considering Sans's face, his flat teeth and uncracked skull. Then he lets go all at once and turns away, using the trident in his hand like a walking stick. Over his shoulder, he says to Unundyne, "Leave us."

"What?" Unundyne says, alarmed. "Sir--"

"Captain," Asgore says without turning, his voice very quiet. "Do you think I can't protect my family from a pathetic creature like this?"

The house is as quiet as a mausoleum. No one else is here. Sans glances sidelong at Unundyne, whose jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Then she brings her fist to her chest, above her soul, and gives him a jerky bow. "No, sir. I'll be outside."

She closes the door behind her. It’s just Sans and Asgore and a house that’s heavy with ghosts. As the seconds pass, Sans notices more and more details: the dust ground into the carpet, the wallpaper peeling gently like it’s been mummified, the sickly sweet smell of burnt pies and slow decay.

When Asgore turns, he is smiling an awkward, harmless smile. “Howdy! You’re not my judge.”

“Nope,” Sans says. “Sorry to waste your time. I guess this has been a big misunderstanding. I’ll just go.”

Asgore gives an obliging little chuckle but there’s no humor in his eyes. “Yet when I check you, it’s the same. ‘Sans. The judge.’ Wherever did you come from?”

Questions. Questions are better than Asgore just outright killing him. Maybe if Sans keeps him talking… “How much do you know about multiverse theory?”

“Another universe,” Asgore says. “Another timeline. Of course. So you are the same.”

Considering that Red is apparently up for execution, it seems smarter to say, “Not really. Nature versus nurture, y’know? We’ve got the same name and the same job but that’s pretty much it.”

“I see,” Asgore says, nodding like a reasonable man, madness glittering in his eyes. “And where is _my_ Sans?”

Sans doesn’t much like the way Asgore said that, laying casual claim to Red as if it’s his collar around Red’s throat instead of Edge’s. It’s like Red is both his child and his property as much as the weapon in his hand. It reminds him that maybe execution isn’t the worst thing Asgore could do to him. “I don’t know. Never met the guy.”

Asgore cocks his head, searching Sans’s face. Mildly, he asks, “Are you lying to me, judge?”

Yes, and thank fuck Sans has had all that practice because it’s never mattered more than it does now. “Nope. But there’s this machine that goes across universes. I’ve almost got it fixed. I just need a little more time and then I’ll go and find him for you.”

“I’m afraid not,” Asgore says, all genteel apology, as if they ran out of biscuits for tea. “I’ve come to a conclusion about judges as of late. There’s no point to them when everyone is guilty.”

He can see his death in Asgore’s eyes. 

Fear clutches tight at his throat, threatening to take the words that are the only thing he has left. He swallows against it and tries to grin. “Even Undyne?”

Something flashes across Asgore’s eyes like a shooting star, there and gone. Then he shakes his head, dismissing it. “No. I am sorry, but you know how it is.”

“Uh, no, not really,” Sans says.

Asgore gives him a gentle, benevolent smile. “For what it’s worth, it will be quick. With your HP, it can’t be otherwise, and I’d like to keep the screaming to a minimum. My son is sleeping.”

This is the point where Red would probably do something defiant and angry like spit in Asgore’s face. Sans’s mouth is too dry. He’s too aware of the sharp points of Asgore’s trident.

Think. Fast.

He could ask for a last cigarette. If he throws it against the wall, the wallpaper is dry enough to catch fire. Maybe Asgore would be distracted enough to-- no, Asgore has fire magic, it wouldn’t phase him. But--

An old man alone in his house, an old man who only sees Red and Unundyne anymore, so desperate for company that he’s invented a fantasy world.

“I get it,” Sans says. “Seems like a waste, though. Don’t you want to know about the universe I came from first? I would’ve figured you’d be a little curious.”

Asgore sighs indulgently. “I am a very old man, Sans. Do you think I haven’t heard of Scheherazade? You’ll tell me one story and then another and another until I’m too hungry for more to kill you. I know how you do like to talk. And how many lies you tell.”

Sans shrugs with a carelessness he doesn’t feel. His soul is hammering painfully in his chest, the taste of panic in his mouth. “Hey, I’m just saying. You don’t even wanna know about your kids?”

Asgore goes very still.

Deeper in the house, there is a clock ticking, counting out the remaining seconds of Sans’s life. He holds his breath, watching the person buried deep, deep inside Asgore stir from sleep, and he hopes like hell.

“My son?” Asgore says softly. “He’s alive?”

“Yeah,” Sans says, thinking fast. “Great guy. He stepped up as king a couple years ago. He’s married. Got a couple kids of his own. Adopted ‘em. You and the queen retired. She’s working as a school teacher now. You’re a gardener.”

Asgore’s throat works as he struggles for words. For the first time, he looks like Sans’s king. He turns his face away, silent for a long moment before he finally says, “And the human?”

Sans thinks of the houses in the woods, all the signs that this place didn’t go to hell until after Asriel and the human died. He thinks of the way that Asgore said his son was sleeping. Not his children. His son.

Edge and Red have never mentioned the fallen human. Neither did Unundyne. It’s like they were erased from the story completely.

The human and Asriel. The future of monsters and humans. Asgore and Toriel brought the human into their home and opened their hearts to them. And then the human got sick and their last wish brought Asriel above the surface to be killed.

Did Asgore and Toriel decide that it hadn’t been a horrible accident? Did they decide that kindness was what doomed their son? Instead of a speech promising war on the humans to give his people hope, did Asgore tell them that the law of the land had changed and everyone was guilty? The underground would’ve fallen apart as people turned on each other and gave in to despair.

A guess. A wild hypothesis. He doesn’t know and it doesn’t really matter. Whether Asgore decided to blame it all on the fallen human or not, the grief and the longing in his voice when he talks about them is crystal clear.

Sans says, “They lived a long life with your family. They were happy.”

Asgore drags in a shaky breath. “A long life.”

Sans glances past Asgore to the stairs. It’s close. Asgore is distracted. “Yeah.”

“I saved them.”

Sans shifts his weight, getting ready to bolt, and Asgore catches the motion out of the corner of his eye and turns back around. There’s a moment of clarity in Asgore’s eyes. Before it can take hold, Sans says, “Yeah. But _you_ didn’t save them, did you? Not here.”

Low blow. It hits Asgore like a brick in the head, staggering him. He clutches the trident, and for a panicky second Sans thinks Asgore is about to hurl it at him, but Asgore only uses it to stay upright. His eyes are wild. “No. My son is sleeping. My son--”

Asgore is a murderer a hundred times over. More than that. But the brokenness of his voice gives Sans a stab of guilt he can’t afford. He shoves it away. “Your children are dead. Your wife is gone. They have been for a long time.”

“No,” Asgore repeats, his voice smaller.

“They’re gone,” Sans says. A thought occurs to him and he latches onto it with both hands. “But if you let me live, I can fix the machine. I can take you to my universe. You can see them again.”

Asgore stares at him. It’s hard to tell if the words penetrate past Asgore’s grief. It’s as if he just lost them all over again, the wall he’d constructed around the world broken down. He is waking up to a horrible world, the one that he’d built himself.

“I...” Asgore says. He looks at New Home falling down around him, and his eyes fix on the carpet. On the bloodstains. “There are traitors everywhere. I have to protect them. I… I must.”

Sans manages to choke back _and do you think that matters to the people you’ve killed?_ If the judge starts talking, it’s never going to shut up. There are a lot of sins written in Asgore’s expression. He’ll lose himself in it. Eventually, Unundyne will come in to see what the hell is going on. There’s no time.

“I know,” Sans says. “But you can stop now. You can start to fix this, okay, buddy? Then you can go see them. But you have to let me go.”

“I can see them?” Asgore asks, hopeful as a child.

“Yeah,” Sans says. Fuck, he has this. He’s so close. Once he’s out of here, he can figure something out. Just a little more. “Let me help you. I can get you to them. Then everything’ll be fine.”

“I can stop,” Asgore says with exhausted relief. He laughs a little, his eyes wet, his shoulders shaking. The trident tumbles out of his hand and clatters to the floor. In one move, he shoves his hand against his chest, _into_ his chest. There is a wet, awful sound.

"Don't!" Sans says, but it's too late. Asgore jerks, his face spasming. And then he falls. His body doesn't hit the ground. Dust scatters over the stained carpet.

The king is dead.

Asgore is dead.

Seconds pass. Minutes pass. Years pass. Sans doesn't know how to get up off his knees. He doesn't throw up this time. His soul doesn't break. He just stares, his mind empty, at the remains as he listens to the door open behind him.

"Sir," Unundyne begins.

Silence.

When she grabs him by the throat and hauls him off the ground, Sans doesn't resist. He hangs there in her grasp and considers the tears in her single burning eye as she snarls in his face. She's going to kill him for murdering her father and there's nothing he can do about it but laugh, an awful noise that cuts off when her fingers begin to squeeze, ticking fractions away from his HP because she wants to do it _slow_ \--

It stops.

“Put him down,” Edge says.

He’s standing behind Unundyne, a sharp bone attack pushed against her back. One push and it’ll pierce her soul. Edge looks like hell, still a little glassy-eyed with drugs, the dust of three monsters clinging to his clothes, but he’s on his feet and his hands are steady.

Unundyne doesn’t squeeze tighter, but she also doesn’t let go. She closes her eye and the tears spill over. Her voice trembling with rage and with grief, she says, “He killed Asgore.”

“Captain, look at him,” Edge says. “Look at his stats. He’s weak. He’s in cuffs. What could he have done?”

Another of those laughs bubble up. It stays locked in his throat, mercifully silent.

Unundyne shakes her head, her thumb pressing harder into Sans’s spine. “It was him! It wasn’t-- Asgore wouldn’t--”

“Undyne, you’re family to me,” Edge says. Unundyne flinches. “But so is he. Don’t make me do this. Please.”

The light bleeds out of Unundyne’s eye like he might as well as killed her. For a moment, her grip tightens. Then she throws Sans down to the dust-strewn carpet and turns her back on them both. 

Immediately, Edge drags Sans off the ground and shoves him behind him, putting himself between him and Unundyne. Coughing, Sans grabs hold of Edge’s jacket to keep himself upright. Edge is like stone under his hand.

Slowly, moving as if she has a gut wound, Unundyne bends and picks Asgore’s trident up off the ground. Without turning, she says, “You’re a traitor to the crown, Papyrus.”

“To his crown, perhaps,” Edge says. “Not yours.”

Her knuckles go white around the shaft of the trident. Then she says, “I’ll give you two minutes to get out of here. If I see you again after that, I’ll kill you both.”

Edge draws in a shaking breath as if he’s going to say something. Anything. Then he lets it out slow and backs them both towards the door. She doesn’t move even as the door closes between them, leaving behind the room where Sans was supposed to die. 

Edge turns to him. His expression is all business for all the pain Sans can see in his eyes. They don’t have time for either of them to feel things. Two minutes isn’t long enough to get out of here, not if they run into guards on their way out. (There is no sign of RG 01 or RG 02 and there is dust on Edge’s clothes. Did he--?) They need a shortcut. It’s a choice between one kind of death and another, a certain death or a possible one that's going to be very, very bad.

If it was just Sans’s life, he might sit down and wait for two minutes to pass. He’s that fucking tired. But Edge needs him. Edge trusts him. Edge doesn’t deserve to die here.

“Sans,” Edge begins.

“Sorry,” Sans says. Just in case. Then he grabs Edge’s arm and hurls them through the open door to the void.

It’s fast and it’s violent, a fraction of a second of darkness before he tears open a door with sheer panicky speed. He thinks there is a face in the void but they’re gone too quick to see. Nothing touches him but Edge.

And then they’re spit back out in Unundyne’s living room. Sans tips over onto his face. The carpet is nice. Plushy. He can hear Edge gagging. Understandable. Vertigo is too kind a word for the feeling of getting slingshotted across time and space, especially when you’re not the one driving.

Oh fuck, he’s gonna have to do that again. He’s gonna have to drag the machine out of here. He’s not 100% sure he can. That took a hell of a lot out of him. He’s overclocked, the same feeling he got when Gaster pushed him in a fight until he passed out, all cold sweats and a splitting headache. He’s gonna crash after this no matter where they end up. He’ll probably sleep through Unundyne killing him.

Edge’s hands are on him, hauling him up off the floor and back onto his feet with as much gentleness as possible. Sans stares fuzzily into his face. It’s a nice face. He says, “Hi.”

“Hello,” Edge says back.

The hand Edge runs over Sans’s skull is shaky. No wonder. The poor guy must’ve expected to find a pile of dust. He pulls a key out of his inventory and, when Sans catches on too slow to raise the cuffs, bends down to undo them. They fall away and Sans's ATK and DEF return to the same lousy normal. Then Edge pulls the collar out of his pocket, and Sans’s soul gives a hard wanting lurch at the sight of it. Moving quickly, Edge puts it back around his throat. Sans lets out a shuddering, grateful breath as that protective feeling starts humming against him again. It’s not the same as being safe, but it’s the best he’s got right now.

Edge strokes his skull again and healing magic comes along with the touch, bringing Sans back up to full. There’s a question in Edge’s eyes.

“He really should’ve gagged me,” Sans says dully.

“You survived. Don’t apologize for that,” Edge says. He’s trying to hide his vicious satisfaction that the king is dead, but Sans sees it anyway. He can’t really begrudge Edge for it. “I need you to take another shortcut. Can you?”

“Don’t really got a choice,” Sans says.

“No, we don’t,” Edge agrees. Then he turns away, calling, “Fang?”

For a moment, just long enough for Edge to look anxious, there’s no answer. Then Doomfanger comes ambling through the bedroom door, stretching as it walks. It yawns hugely and starts to rub against Edge’s ankles, only to give an indignant squeak as Edge scoops it up and unceremoniously shoves it into his inventory.

With that handled, Edge herds Sans towards the machine. Sans lets himself be herded. It’s the only thing keeping him moving. He puts his hand on the machine and takes a deep breath, trying to brace himself before they jump. They’ll go to one of the houses near the ruins. It might still be connected to the Core and if it has power--

His eyes happen upon the monitor. In blinking text, it reads, _Connection found! Accept?_

Sans stares at it. Then, with clumsy fingers, he accepts.

There is a noise like wet fabric being ripped apart between two giant fists. Sans’s head snaps around and he and Edge both stare at the hole that just opened in reality.

The machine reads _Connection found!_

“Fuck me,” Sans says faintly. It’s the first bit of decent luck they’ve had in days and he’s not really sure what to do with it. How is he supposed to trust it?

“Indeed,” Edge says. “Let’s go before it changes its mind.” 

He gives Sans a push towards the hole, which does not look like the kind of thing that anybody sane wants anything to do with. It’s not even the void in there. It’s something else, something bigger. But on the other side is Papyrus, and so Sans doesn’t need a second nudge.

He reaches out--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: drugging someone's drink, Underfell-typical violence, Sans nearly getting executed, Sans attempting to mindfuck several people with various levels of success, Underfell!Asgore committing suicide, Edge may or may not have killed Underfell! RG01 and RG 02.
> 
> This bitch empty. Yeet.
> 
> Edited 11/17 to add some text I missed, thanks for the heads-up, LyraLV!


	8. Chapter 8

\-- and then someone grabs his hand and yanks.

Sans tumbles out into the light and someone’s arms. His brother’s. He would know Papyrus anywhere. Papyrus just picks him up like he weighs nothing and scrambles backwards with him, getting them both out of the way before Red shoves the upper half of his body in the hole in reality and drags Edge out. Edge manages to stay on his feet because of course he does, but Red doesn’t let go of him. He holds on.

There is a weird underwater sound through the hole in reality, like someone is hammering on a door from a long way away.

Sharply, Edge says, “Brother, the power--”

Papyrus is already halfway there. Still clutching Sans, he goes to the machine’s power cord and yanks it smartly out of the wall. The hole flares bright, brighter, yet brighter, and then it’s gone.

Silence. It’s just the four of them in Sans’s cellar. Home. Safe. Finally safe.

“Well,” Papyrus says, all brightness with a strain underneath it. “That was exciting! Science continues to be awful forever.”

Red laughs a little wildly.

Sans is with his brother. Papyrus has his arms around him. It's everything he thought he'd maybe never have again, everything he wanted one more time while he was waiting to die. Sans slings his arms around Papyrus’s neck, tangling his fingers into Papyrus’s scarf. Fuck, is it tempting to pass out right here.

Papyrus’s arms tighten to the point of pain. He turns away from Red and Edge, probably still trying to smile even when he whispers, "Don't you ever do that to me again."

"I won't," Sans says hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

"Of course I believe in you--" Sans flinches. "-- but I wasn't there to look after you and you're so--"

"I'm okay," Sans says. He doesn't have to see Papyrus's face to know he's crying. "I'm fine. Not even a scratch on me."

Papyrus gives a hitching breath. Sans wants to rub his back in circles, soothing him like when they were kids, but he can't unpry his fingers from Papyrus's scarf. He can only clutch at him.

Over Papyrus's shoulder, he can see Red and Edge looking at each other. Edge goes to one knee, haltingly reaching out to pat Red's shoulder, and freezes when Red takes his face in his hands. Edge's eyes are very wide as Red studies every inch of his face, then leans in and rests his forehead against Edge's. They don't kiss. Red says something too low to hear, and Edge closes his eyes like it hurts him. When Edge puts his arms around Red, moving like he’s defusing a bomb, Red tenses for a moment before slowly sinking into it.

It's private. Sans looks away.

Eventually, Papyrus lets him down and pulls back a little, wiping his eyes. Then he gives Sans a long, searching look. Papyrus is no judge, thank fuck, but he knows Sans down to his marrow. Papyrus's mouth turns down, composure wobbling, and then he clears his throat and tries to look stern. "I certainly hope you didn't live on garbage and sleep too much."

"I tried to look after him for you," Edge says from close behind him. “Unfortunately, it’s been an eventful few days.”

Papyrus beams at Edge, still watery-eyed. “You brought him back. Thank you.”

It’s almost the same thing Edge said to Sans before things went to hell. With the formality of a vow, Edge says, “Always.”

Papyrus gives Edge a hug fierce enough to be worthy of Undyne. Edge stands there with his arms out at his sides, looking more horrified than he did when people were actively trying to kill him. Sans would laugh if he could figure out how. Stiffly, Edge pats Papyrus on the back of the head. "There, there."

A ragged curse from behind him is his only warning before Red drags him into his arms. Sans latches onto him right back. Red says, his voice rough and furious, "You stupid asshole.”

“Yeah,” Sans agrees. Red doesn’t even know the half of it yet. When he does, it’s gonna get ugly. He’s got to greedily take all the hugging he can get while he still can.

“I thought you were dead,” Red says, sounding dangerously like he would care.

"Lose any bets?" It’s so easy to fall back into the rhythm of snark, snark, deflect. It’s a relief to know what to say.

"Heh. Alive and still talking shit." Red pulls back to look at him. That's when Red notices it, seeing as he’s been a little distracted. The LV. The dust on Sans's hands. He goes still.

Tiredly, Sans says, "Hilarious, right?"

Red glances over Sans's shoulder at where Edge is awkwardly patting Papyrus, then back at Sans. A silent question.

Sans shrugs. It doesn't matter why. It's never mattered why.

Red considers him, then seems to come to some decision. Sans doesn’t know what, only that Red leans in and claims his mouth. It's a good kiss, considering that Sans is running on a lag and can’t really reciprocate. He just kind of holds on. When Red breaks the kiss and steps back to look him up and down, thoroughly checking him out like Sans isn’t a fucking trainwreck right now, it's as if nothing's changed. "Hey, I dig this thing where you’re in my clothes. And the collar--"

The collar. They’re home. He shouldn’t--

Sans fumbles at the buckle, his fingers clumsy. Unexpectedly, Red says, "Lemme help."

Sans lets him, his fingers digging into the spaces between his metacarpals. He can feel Edge watching but he doesn't look up. It’s not really a surprise that the collar doesn’t burn Red’s fingers when he touches it, Edge’s magic accepting his brother as Red undoes the buckle and slips the collar off. Sans’s throat feels cold in its absence. He wants it back.

Red holds the collar out. "Here you go."

Sans doesn't move. "It's Edge's. I was borrowing it."

"Keep it," Edge says from beside him. He's positioned himself to cover Sans's blind spot again. It's comforting to have him there. "It was a gift."

Slowly, slowly, Sans takes the collar and puts it in his pocket. There’s something like sympathy in Red’s expression. Sans turns to look for his brother, desperate for an exit. A distraction. Anything.

But Papyrus is already there. With a glance, Papyrus reads him and turns to Edge. "Edgy Me, do you want to stay here for tonight? Or you can do home and do weird things with your brother very loudly.”

“Definitely that second one,” Red says.

There's an awkward moment where Edge looks at Sans, searching his face. Sans has nothing left to give him right now. Edge reaches out, resting the tips of his fingers on Sans’s shoulder, like he thinks Sans will break under any more pressure. “Is it safe for Red to use a shortcut?”

“Wait, what?” Red says, suddenly paying much more attention. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?”

“Yeah, it should be fine,” Sans says tiredly. He’s got the proof now. They got through a shortcut okay. If he could’ve opened the doors that first time, they would’ve gotten away. If he hadn’t let it get that bad, if Gaster didn’t have a grudge, if he wasn’t so _stupid_ , none of this would have happened. Two people wouldn’t be dead.

“What the fuck--” Red starts to demand. Then he clearly reconsiders how good for long coherent answers Sans is right now and shuts his mouth, looking pissed about it. “Fine. Whatever. But you’re gonna explain your cryptic bullshit tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Sans says. That’s more mercy than he expected, honestly. He rubs his eyes. 

“Tomorrow,” Papyrus says pointedly. “Goodbye, Cherry. Goodbye, Edgy Me. Thank you for not being dead. Enjoy your weird sex.”

Red snorts. So does Sans, half in sheer giddy relief that he still can laugh. He risks a glance at Edge. “Bye.”

Gently, Edge rubs his knuckles across the top of Sans’s skull. Then he takes his hand away, Red grabs his wrist, and they’re gone. Boom. Just like that. 

Stupid to be feel feelings about the fact that Edge isn’t here. He’s just feeling raw. It’ll be better after he sleeps. For now, he’s home and he’s with Papyrus, and that’s more than enough. 

(If it feels unreal, if he’s just waiting for the catch, nobody has to know. It’ll pass. It’s not like he’s ever been able to trust a good thing to begin with.)

“Brother?” Papyrus asks. 

There’s an uncertainty to it, like he’s not sure if he can trust this either, and that breaks Sans’s heart. He attempts a smile and probably doesn’t nail the dismount. “Hey, bro. Don’t take this the wrong way but you look awful.”

“ _I_ look awful?” Papyrus asks, offended, which officially puts them back in familiar territory. Sans wasn’t kidding; Papyrus looks like he hasn’t even closed his eyes since this started, just worried three days straight. “You look atrocious. Terrible. Horrible. Several other synonyms for awful. Do you want some casserole? We have a great deal of casserole.”

“Maybe in the morning,” Sans says. He knows intellectually that he’s fucking starving but it’s buried under all the tiredness, and he can still hear the wet sound of Asgore’s fingers digging in his own chest. “I just... I just want to sleep."

His traitor voice cracks. Looking like his heart hurts, Papyrus reaches out and pats his head. “Then you should. And I’ll stay with you and make sure you do it right.”

“Thanks,” Sans says, his voice small.

When Papyrus nudges him up the stairs and to a bedroom, it’s not Sans’s but his own. He’s serious about that supervision thing, briskly peeling Red’s jacket off him and steadying him as he kicks the ruined slippers off. Sans could use a shower or twelve, grimy from Waterfall and sweaty from terror and exertion (fuck, there’s probably dust on him), but Papyrus doesn’t seem worried about the horrorshow Sans is making of his nice clean sheets. He sits beside Sans on the bed, tucking him in with a care that makes Sans’s eyes burn, and then sits there looking down at him with that worried furrow between his brows.

"I'm just tired," Sans says. His voice sounds off even to himself and he can't fix it. "It's okay."

Still frowning, Papyrus lays down beside him like they're children again. His arm comes around Sans, carefully protective, and Sans swallows hard against the burning coal in his throat.

"I'm okay," Sans says. Probably the biggest lie he’s ever told, which is impressive, considering all the competition.

Quietly, Papyrus says, "What happened?"

Sans shakes his head. No. Not tonight. Never, but particularly not tonight, when the truth wants to come spilling out like poison. He stares hard at the pattern on the sheets, washed so many times that he can’t tell what they were to start with. It seems important that he remember. Ducks? Stars?

For a minute, Papyrus doesn't say anything. Then: "Cherry and I spent a lot of time together."

Sans risks meeting his eyes for a moment. Mistake. The way Papyrus is looking at him... "Yeah?"

"He basically moved into our house because he wouldn't leave the machine alone? Even to sleep or eat or shower, which was pretty unfortunate after a few days? We bonded over fraternal terror. We talked about a lot of things. I’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling a little better."

"That’s great, dude.”

Papyrus takes a deep, deep breath before he says, "I know he killed people sometimes, Sans. And Edge too. It wasn’t--"

"I know," Sans says wretchedly.

"Hush. You don’t know what I’m going to say and it's rude to interrupt," Papyrus says. "They're my friends even if they made mistakes. You don't just leave people because they aren't perfect. You believe in them and you give them a reason to do better next time. And you're my brother-friend, which is even more important."

Sans squeezes his eyes shut but they're still welling up. He swallows again, holding his breath against the sound that he doesn't want to make, and nods jerkily.

"To do something like that..." Papyrus stops. Every second of silence hurts. Sans waits for the disappointment, the horror, the judgment, and he’s not prepared for Papyrus to say, "You must have been so scared."

Papyrus isn’t supposed to forgive him.

It neatly throws a brick through the last of Sans's composure. He breaks. The sob tears out of his throat, and Papyrus makes a little upset noise, gathering him in. Sans shoves his face in Papyrus's chest, buried in the sweater, and lets Papyrus hold him together.

"It’s going to be okay, brother," Papyrus says, petting his back. There’s love and relief and sadness in his voice. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”


End file.
